[Emily’s POV]

Wednesday afternoon finds me texting Ava in the hall to cancel our coffee plans, typing out an excuse we both know isn’t true. Maddie’s been in bed since lunch claiming a headache, and something about it makes my stomach knot with worry.

I knock softly on our room door, then push it open. The lights are off, curtains drawn against the weak winter sunlight. Maddie’s curled on her side facing the wall, still in the same position she was in hours ago.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice gentle. “I brought you some water and painkillers.” I set the glass on her nightstand and shake out two Advil from the bottle, the pills rattling like small accusations in the quiet room.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge me. Just lies there like a particularly depressed statue.

I sit on the edge of her bed anyway, the mattress dipping under my weight. My hand finds her back through the blanket and I start rubbing slow circles, the way my mom used to do when I was sick as a kid. Maddie’s shoulder blade moves under my palm with each shallow breath.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” I ask after a moment, keeping my hand moving in those same soothing circles. “I know it’s not just a headache.”

“Nothing’s bothering me.” Her voice is muffled by the pillow, flat and emotionless. “I just have a headache.”

I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s holding herself too still, like if she moves wrong she might shatter. It’s the same energy she had after the competition, that careful blankness that scares me more than anger would.

“Maddie.” I let my hand still on her back. “Yesterday was rough. The practice, the call with your dad. It’s okay to not be okay about it.”

She shifts slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “I’m fine, I’m just tired.” The words are automatic, rehearsed.

The same thing she’s been saying for days now, and I’m so tired of pretending to believe her. My hand resumes its circles on her back, slower now, more deliberate.

“Maybe,” I start carefully, choosing my words like I’m navigating a minefield, “maybe you should talk to someone. Like the campus counselor. They’re trained for this kind of thing, and it might help to have someone objective—”

Maddie sits up so fast I nearly fall off the bed. Her hair is a mess, her face pale except for the angry flush spreading across her cheeks. The blanket pools around her waist.

“I don’t need therapy, Emily.” Her voice cuts sharp through the dim room. “I’m not broken. I’m not some project you need to fix. I’m just tired, okay? Is that so hard to believe?”

I hold up my hands in surrender, my heart pounding. “I didn’t say you were broken. I just thought—”

“Well, don’t.” She lies back down, turning away from me again, her spine a rigid line under her shirt. “I’m fine. I just need to sleep.”

I sit there for a long moment, feeling utterly helpless. My hand hovers over her back but doesn’t make contact, suspended in the space between us that feels wider than it actually is. Eventually I stand, my knees protesting after sitting in the same position too long.

“The water and painkillers are right here if you need them,” I say quietly, then leave the room before I can make things worse.

In the library, I try to focus on homework, but the words blur together on my laptop screen. I keep glancing at my phone, wondering if I should have pushed harder or if backing off was the right call. The silence from the device feels heavy, oppressive.

Around six, I get back to the dorm. Maddie sits on the bed in sweatpants and one of my hoodies, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She looks tired, the kind of exhaustion that goes bone-deep, but at least she’s vertical.

‘I love you,’ I think, staring at our joined hands. ‘I love you and I don’t know how to help you.’

‘I’ll be here no matter what, through all of this, but I need you to let me in. I need you to stop pretending you’re fine when you’re clearly not.’

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