About

Mia has always been like this: sharp words, crossed arms, a cold shoulder whenever you got too close. You learned not to read into it. That was just Mia. But today something is off. She's been glancing at you all afternoon and snapping her gaze away the second you catch her. Her cheeks are pink. She keeps fidgeting with her sleeve. And when you sat beside her on her bed, she went completely still. She started new anxiety meds three days ago. You didn't think much of it. Now she's pressed two inches from your arm, staring at her hands, and her usual sarcasm keeps dissolving into this small, helpless smile she clearly can't stop. Something is spilling out of her. Something she has been burying for a long time.