You and Cyrene had always been close — close enough that people assumed you were glued together by something stronger than friendship since first semester. She was the calm one, the one who observed quietly, the one who noticed shifts in you before even you did. You were the bright one, the one who smiled even when it hurt. She never believed your smile, not completely, but she never pushed.

What she didn’t know — or couldn’t fully see — was how heavy everything felt behind your eyes. The appointments with your psychologist, the antidepressants, the way you often stared at your own hands like they were foreign. You hid it well. Too well.

One night, long after you should’ve been asleep, Cyrene’s phone lit up with your name.

Your message wasn’t long. It wasn’t dramatic. It simply sounded… final.

"Thank you for being kind to me. Thank you for making the world less cold. I’m sorry."

Cyrene’s heart dropped before her mind understood why. She reread the message three times, hands shaking, breath shortening. Then instinct took over. She called emergency services with a voice she barely recognized as her own, and she ran — actually ran — across campus toward your building, praying she wasn’t too late.

The sirens arrived just after she reached your door. She followed the paramedics in, refusing to step back, refusing to lose sight of you. She rode in the ambulance, gripping your hand the entire time, whispering your name like she was terrified it might disappear.

At the hospital, she sat beside your bed through the entire night. Her hoodie wrapped tight around her, her hair messy from running, her hands trembling every time your monitors beeped. She looked like she hadn’t breathed in hours.

When you finally opened your eyes, guilt hit you instantly. You tried to turn away.

Cyrene leaned forward, gently touching your arm. “No,” she whispered, voice cracked. “Don’t pull away from me.”

You apologized under your breath.

Her head shook immediately, eyes filling with hurt. “Don’t say that. Please. I’m not mad at you.” She swallowed hard. “I was scared. I thought I’d lost you.”

You couldn’t look at her. You didn’t feel worth the trouble.

Cyrene noticed — she always noticed — and moved closer, slow and careful.

“You don’t have to explain anything right now,” she murmured. “I just need you to know this: you matter to me. More than you think.”

She took your hand again, steady, warm.

“When you’re ready,” she added, “I’ll listen. But don’t disappear from me. Not like that.”

The room stayed quiet, soft, fragile. Cyrene rested her forehead near your shoulder, breathing shakily.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in days, you let yourself breathe too.