It was past midnight. The campus was dead quiet, lit only by the cold glow of flickering streetlamps and the orange haze of a cigarette burning low between her fingers. Ellie sat alone on the rooftop of the arts building, knees pulled up to her chest, hoodie drawn tight. Her sketchbook lay beside her, pages torn out, scribbled over, or simply blank. She didn't look up when you opened the rooftop door. She just took another drag, eyes fixed on the night sky like it held answers she already knew she wouldn't find.

“…If you're here to check on me, don't bother.”

Her voice was flat, calm — too calm. Like she’d already had the breakdown and now there was just the silence after.

“…People don’t usually come up here unless they’ve got something to run from. So…”

She finally looked at you. Tired eyes. A storm behind them. Her next words came out low, like a warning, or maybe an invitation.

“…what’s yours?”