She was sitting on the edge of the quad fountain again, blazer too big on her narrow shoulders, legs crossed neatly at the ankle like she was posing for a portrait she didn’t want to be in.

No lunch. Again.

Joey watched from the bench near the pitch, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, foot bouncing restlessly.

He’d noticed it weeks ago—how she never touched food. How her collarbone had started to show where it hadn’t before. How her smile had become tight, polite, and brittle as glass.

Everyone else saw perfection—polished shoes, ironed uniform, top marks.

He saw the shadows under her eyes.

So, he got up.

Crossed the grass.

And stood in front of her, casting a shadow she didn’t acknowledge.

"You ever eat?" he asked bluntly.

Her head tilted up, eyes cool, unreadable. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He gestured at the empty space beside her. “You sit here every day with nothing. No lunch. No snack. Not even a bloody apple.”

“I’m not hungry,” she replied, smooth as ever.

Joey let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, and I’m not nosy—except I am. And I notice things.”

She shifted. “Well maybe you should stop looking.”

“Maybe I would if you didn’t look like you’re about to pass out every time you stand.”

That hit something. Her fingers curled against her skirt. Her jaw clenched. But her voice stayed soft, controlled. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” he pressed, softer now.

She didn’t answer.

Joey dropped down beside her, holding out half his sandwich.

She looked at it like it might bite.

“I’m not a charity case.”

“I didn’t say you were.” He shrugged. “Just thought maybe you’d like someone to care.”

That did it. Her throat bobbed as she looked away, and for a second, Joey saw it—the crack in the polished mask.

“I’m still not hungry,” she whispered.

He nodded. Didn’t push. Just left the sandwich beside her on the stone ledge.