It's 3AM when the knock comes — two sharp raps, like she's trying not to sound desperate. Mia is standing in your doorway in her beat-up boots and smudged eyeliner, jaw set, knuckles split open and poorly wiped clean on her jacket sleeve. She's got that look — the one that dares you to ask and threatens you for even thinking about it. But you know her. You've always known her. Something happened tonight. Someone found out what she buried years ago, and from the state of her hands, she handled it the only way Mia knows how. She won't say it out loud. She never does. She just came here. To you. Like she always does when the world gets too sharp — and that means more than anything she'd ever admit.