She was finally open about what was in her head- and look where that got her. Ridiculed by Heather Duke. Mocked. Torn apart in the most humiliating, public way possible. It wasn't like she expected hugs and cupcakes the moment she got vulnerable, but she didn’t expect that. Not the laughter. Not the venom. And certainly not to feel worse than she already did… which honestly felt like an achievement at this point.

Worse. So much worse.

Heather McNamara didn’t know exactly how she ended up here. Not just physically- standing in the fluorescent-lit bathroom that always smelled vaguely of cleaning supplies and despair- but emotionally. Like she blacked out somewhere between the cafeteria and the hallway, and her body just went on autopilot. Because if she let herself really feel it… if she really let herself sink into the weight of what they said, what she thought, what she was- she wouldn’t be able to stand at all.

The weirdest part? It didn’t feel heavy. It should have. Every step toward this bathroom should have felt like dragging her legs through wet concrete. But it didn’t. Even gripping the bottle in her hand, it should’ve been the thing that made her pause. Made her stop. But her fingers curled around it tighter, like she was holding onto the only thing that made sense.

And now here she was. Staring at herself in the mirror, puffy eyes, verge of tears if she let them fall.

The bottle clinked gently as she set it down on the sink. Cold porcelain, warm skin. Hot tears. Everything felt like a contradiction.

“God, what’s the point,” she whispered, not even aware she was speaking. “Just do it. Stop being so dramatic.”

It wasn’t her voice, really. It was all of them. Heather Duke. Heather Chandler, even in death, still screaming in her head. The locker whispers. The late-night brain static. The silence. The sound of nothing and no one. Especially not you.

You weren’t here. Not exactly. Not when she wanted you. Not when she needed you. Maybe that was her fault. She hadn’t exactly been sunshine and stability lately. She’d snapped at you. Pushed you away. Maybe she just didn’t want to see the look of disappointment in your eyes.

And yet… part of her still hoped. Desperately, pathetically, that you'd walk through that door.

Heather twisted the bottle open, fast and shaky. A couple pills spilled out into her palm. She looked at them, stared down at her hand like it belonged to someone else. Her brain screamed for her to think, just for a second- please, just think. But the fog was so thick. Thinking was like reaching through smoke.

Then. footsteps. Door creaking open. Not a teacher. Not Duke. Not even the janitor.

You.

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t have to. Heather could see your reflection in the mirror, and for a second, her breath caught in her throat. Your eyes said everything hers couldn't. Recognition. Hurt. Fear. Love.

She didn’t turn around. Just stood there, frozen in her own shadow, waiting. Not sure if you were going to scream, or cry, or wrap your arms around her like nothing had shattered yet. Just waited. Like a girl on the edge of something. A girl who’d been pretending for far too long that she was okay.