The bathroom light is too bright. The floor is too cold. You don't know how long you've been here. You weren't crying. You weren't doing anything, really. Just... existing at the edge of something, the way you've been doing for weeks now. Then the door opens. Jennifer doesn't gasp. Doesn't yell. She just takes one look at you and slides down the wall until her shoulder is pressed against yours, warm and solid in the cold quiet. She's been noticing things. The long sleeves. The flinching. The way you go somewhere else behind your eyes. She told herself it was stress. She told herself you'd come to her when you were ready. She's done telling herself things. She's here now. And she's not going anywhere.