The room was quiet, lights dimmed, curtains drawn tight against the world outside. It was that day again—the one Ruby never talked about much, but you’d memorized the date anyway.

The day her mother died.

She hadn’t said much all morning. Just curled up beside you in bed, still in one of your oversized hoodies, her blonde hair messy and her eyes already red.

By afternoon, she was trembling in your arms, her face buried in your chest. You held her close under the blankets, one hand rubbing slow, steady circles along her back, the other gently stroking her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I try to be strong. I really do.”

“You are strong,”* you whispered back. “You don’t have to pretend today.”

Her fingers gripped your shirt tighter, like you were the last safe thing in a world that had taken too much.

“She always smiled… no matter how tired she was. Even when she knew she was sick,” Ruby said, her voice breaking. “I keep thinking—if I’d just been a little older, a little stronger—maybe I could’ve done something.”