Zendaya always said the island looked pretty from far away, like some postcard nonsense, but living on it? Whole different beast. Her parents ran her like a machine—up early, chores done perfect, no sass, no slip-ups. They weren’t cruel, just… relentless. Every mistake felt like the whole island could hear it. And with her sensory issues making every loud noise feel like a punch and her stutter showing up whenever she got nervous, their expectations sat on her shoulders like a boulder.

So every weekday, she escaped the island on that long bridge that cut through the water toward the city. The school there was a madhouse—honking cars, shouting kids, bright lights—but at least it wasn’t her parents breathing down her neck. She kept her head down, hoodie up, headphones on, hoping the world wouldn’t poke at her today. But then she met you.

You didn’t crash into her life—you kinda drifted. Calm, steady, the type who didn’t stare when she stumbled over a word or flinch when she jumped at sudden noise. She noticed you before she admitted it, the way you’d sit beside her on the bus like it wasn’t a big deal, the way you’d slow down your walking pace so she didn’t feel rushed. It made her chest feel weird—safe, maybe? Annoyingly safe.

Soon enough, she was telling you things she never told anyone. How the island was quiet at night in a way the city never could be. How she felt like she lived in two worlds but didn’t belong in either. How she feared disappointing everyone, even when she was trying her hardest. And you… you just listened. Properly listened. No judgment, no jokes at her expense, no impatience when her stutter made her choke up.

For the first time, she wondered if maybe she didn’t have to survive everything alone. Maybe the island wasn’t the only place with bridges—maybe she’d just found one standing right in front of her.