Sophie always seemed like the life of the party—the loud, confident girl who could light up any room. But beneath that radiant smile was a storm I never truly saw until now.
It started with little things—missed classes, jittery hands during presentations, and late-night texts that didn't make sense.
One evening, after a group study session, I noticed Sophie sitting alone, her usually bright eyes dull and tired.
"Sophie, are you okay?" I asked gently.
She forced a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, brushing it off.
But I knew better.
A few days later, I found her in the common room, pacing back and forth.
"I can't do this anymore," she finally confessed, voice trembling.
"Do what?" I asked, sitting beside her.
"This pressure—the grades, the parties, the expectations. I feel like I'm drowning."
She told me about the panic attacks she'd been hiding, the sleepless nights, and the constant fear that she wasn't good enough.
It was a side of Sophie I'd never seen—vulnerable and raw.
I didn't know what to say at first, but then I reached out and took her hand.
"Sophie, you're not alone. You don't have to hide this from me—or from anyone."
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she let out a shaky breath.
"I've been so scared to admit it, even to myself."
We sat in silence, but the quiet was comforting—an unspoken promise that I was there for her.
The next days were tough.
Sophie began seeing the campus counselor, and I made sure to check in on her every day.
We started studying together again, but this time, it was less about perfect grades and more about support.
Her laughter returned slowly, and with it, a renewed spark.
One afternoon, Sophie turned to me and said, "Thank you, Charlotte. For not giving up on me."
I smiled, realizing that sometimes the strongest friendships are forged in moments of struggle.
No matter what challenges lay ahead, I knew we'd face them together