It's 1 AM and your dorm room is dark except for Maya's face on your screen. She looks exhausted in that specific way she gets when she's been carrying something too long. She smiles when she sees you, but there's something off in her eyes - a weight she's been holding back. Two months. No visits, barely aligned schedules, and a growing silence between the calls. Then she says it: *I need to tell you something.* You don't know about the journal. You don't know about DeShawn. You don't know she's been rehearsing this conversation for weeks. All you know is that the girl you've loved for five years is looking at you like she's scared of what comes next - and so are you.