The room was colder than usual. A sharp, clinical kind of cold — the kind that sank into her bones and settled in the hollow of her chest. The sterile walls, once just background noise to her numb routine, now loomed like silent sentinels, too white, too blank, as if mocking the chaos twisting inside her.
Harper hadn't noticed the chill at first. Her mind was a labyrinth of jagged thoughts, looping endlessly. The fluorescent light above buzzed with a droning persistence — a brittle, grating hum that scraped at her nerves. It pulsed in rhythm with the pounding in her head, each flicker another reminder that she was awake, still here, still trapped.
She hadn't spoken to anyone in weeks. No Riley. No guards. Not even the empty comfort of meaningless group therapy. Just silence. Thick, punishing silence. It filled every corner of the room and crawled under her skin like smoke. It wrapped itself around her throat, squeezing until every breath felt like dragging air through tar.
Her body trembled as she stood alone in the center of the room, her eyes fixed on the door — unmoving, unblinking — waiting for it to creak open. Waiting for something. A sound, a face, a distraction. A reason not to dissolve.
Her arms clutched herself tightly, nails pressing crescents into her flesh, grounding her, reminding her she still existed. The edges of her vision wavered — not from panic this time, but from something older, heavier. A slow-moving storm crawling up from her chest, curling around her throat, dragging her under.
I can't do this anymore.
The thought wasn't a scream. It wasn't even a cry. It was a whisper, soft and sedated, like a thread unraveling. But the moment she acknowledged it, it rooted itself. It echoed louder in the hollows of her mind, gaining weight and form, until it felt like the only truth left.
I can't do this anymore.
She crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut, her spine pressed against the icy wall, knees folding toward her chest. Her hands cradled her head as if trying to hold it together — but the ache inside her chest only deepened, a cavernous emptiness carved by years of disappointment, by guilt and shame too dense to name.
The anger she carried — toward her grandmother's cruel perfectionism, her mother's absence, her own helplessness — cracked open inside her like a fault line.
Why can't they just leave me alone?
Why can't I be who I am?
Why do I always have to fight just to exist?
Her breathing hitched, erratic and sharp. Her lungs refused to fill properly, and tears stung the corners of her eyes, hot and angry — but she didn't cry. She couldn't. The pain was too vast, too ingrained. Crying felt too soft for something this sharp.
She heard Cece's voice then — not from memory, but from inside her, as if the words had branded themselves onto her very ribs.
"You're broken."
"You'll never be good enough."
"You're a disgrace to this family."
Harper's chest seized. Her fingers dug into her scalp, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut as if that would quiet the internal screaming. But the noise only grew louder, deafening, until she couldn't tell where her thoughts ended and Cece's began.
Her heart thudded in her ears. Every cell in her body screamed. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to be silent forever.
And then—
She froze. The words weren't loud. They were barely even formed. But they shimmered, just for a second, like a single star in a pitch-black sky. Had she imagined it? Was it her own voice?
It didn't matter.
Because it was her birthday.
Seventeen years old.
She should've been somewhere else — anywhere else. Laughing. Running through the wind with a cake-stained grin. Instead, she was here. Forgotten. Reduced to silence.
The air in the room was heavy, almost syrupy with despair, but Harper moved. Slowly. Painfully. Her bare feet touched the cold linoleum like they didn't belong to her. The floor was unforgiving, like the rest of this place. Her body swayed as she stood, equilibrium a distant concept, but she caught herself on the wall, palm slick with sweat.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the knob and cracked the door open just enough to see the light spill through — blinding after so much darkness.
And there she was.
Riley.
Leaning against the wall, arms crossed in that casual way of hers, head tilted slightly. She straightened the moment she saw Harper, the sharp edges of her posture softening.
"Hey." she said softly — tender, hesitant. Her voice sounded like music after the weeks of silence.
Harper's throat refused words. She nodded — small, almost imperceptible. Her whole body ached. Even blinking felt like effort.
They stood there, still and suspended in that quiet corridor. The world buzzed dimly around them, muffled sounds of other kids being marched to group. But here, in this flickering pocket of fluorescent light, everything felt still.
Then Riley reached out.
A gentle brush of her fingers against Harper's hand — barely a touch, but Harper flinched. Not from fear, but from the way such kindness made something inside her tremble.
"You don't have to talk." Riley whispered. "Just be here. That's enough."
Something fragile cracked in Harper's chest. Her breath came in short gasps. She nodded again, the smallest of acknowledgements, tears breaking free without her permission.
Riley stayed. Just stood there. Unmoving. Solid.
Then she shifted slightly, slipped a hand into her hoodie pocket, and glanced both ways down the corridor. Her fingers closed around something, and she gently nudged Harper's hand open.
"Here.. I know it's your birthday today, the staff were talking about it."
A bracelet.
Just a thin red string, frayed at the edges, knotted awkwardly.
"It's stupid.." Riley murmured, already defensive. "But... I thought you should have something. Something that's yours. Something they can't take."
Harper stared. It wasn't just a bracelet. It was rebellion. It was love. It was the loudest scream in the quietest voice.
She curled her fingers around it, like she was holding a treasure.
She didn't need to say thank you. Riley saw it in her eyes.
"Let's talk at the fire pit tonight."
Later that night, the fire pit was a pathetic excuse for a gathering place — a sad little ring of stones and scattered embers gasping for life. But under the sprawl of stars, it felt sacred.
Harper sat cross-legged, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself for warmth and protection. Riley dropped down beside her, hoodie dusted in frost, and pulled two crumpled napkins from her pocket.
Inside, cafeteria cookies. Dry, probably older than they looked, cracked at the edges.
Harper smiled. It was small but real.
"To seventeen." Riley said, lifting her cookie in salute.
Harper hesitated — then raised hers. They tapped them together, a soft, silly clink of stale sugar and survival.
The fire cracked, casting flickers of orange across Riley's face.
"You deserve more than this." Riley said eventually, her voice low, rough with emotion she was trying to hide it. "A real birthday. Real love."
Harper looked away, throat tight. The bracelet pressed against her wrist like a heartbeat.
Riley's fingers brushed hers again — tentative. Kind.
Then she leaned in — just a breath — not demanding, only asking.
Harper froze.
Panic flooded her. Not because of Riley — but because of what had been planted inside her long ago.
Her grandmother's voice.
You're disgusting.
You're sick.
No one will ever love you if you keep this up.
Harper recoiled, pulling her hand away like it burned.
Riley blinked. Hurt flared in her eyes, but she smiled — tightly. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"No." Harper rasped. "I just... I can't."
Riley's face softened, not with pity, but understanding.
Harper buried her face in her knees. Her whole body felt like a wound.
The fire crackled louder this time, casting sparks into the sky.
She stared at them. Tiny embers, rising, burning bright — then fading.
And for the first time in a long time, she wished she could rise with them. Not to disappear.
But to begin again.