Disclaimer: I do not own Girl Meets World, Boy Meets World, the characters, or the events that took place in both shows. Only the events, plot, and OC characters in Don't Look Down are mine.

a/n: Warning! This chapter does touch on the topic of suicide, attempted suicide, suicidal thoughts/actions. I do not desire to generalize any form of depression or struggles with suicide. I do intend for this story's interpretation of mental and emotional health struggles to be callous or superficial. Everyone's struggle is different. I do not think any fictional story can do justice to represent the gravity of these issues.

Chapter Four

At nineteen, Maya was older than the other finishing freshman. Of course, they were almost all nineteen years old, so she wasn't older in a literal sense so much as a figurative one. Life hardened her all too quickly, of this she was well aware. While the majority of her friends would say their toughest decision was deciding what to major in or which school to transfer to or whether or not they should live off-campus next year, Maya's hardest decision was getting out of bed in the morning.

"This isn't good for you, Maya," Farkle voiced over the phone, the call she let go to voicemail. "I'm worried—we all are. Please just call me."

"End of final message," came the bright voice over the speaker, signaling the last of eleven messages: five from Riley, three from Farkle, two from Shawn, and one from her mother. They'd been calling her all day; she'd been ignoring their calls all day.

Screw them for taking so long to take notice.

She took a swig from the bottle she swiped weeks ago from Shawn's stash. She never bothered reading the label, instead playing a guessing game of 'What's In the Bottle?' Too sweet to be Vodka, to bitter to be beer, the list went on. The last two hours had been spent taking notes on the unknown alcohol, and Maya bitterly mused how much more fun this was than taking notes on Art History.

Her eyes fell, the city streets lit up three stories below. Her perch on the roof gave her visionary freedom to the entire street, all the people wandering beneath her. Blurry, fuzzy figures, single people sometimes showing up in threes. Or couples. There were lots of couples. They looked so small from up here, like she could squash them with her feet. And she giggled at thought, laughed in the face of the bitter irony. Here she was pretending to step on little people below her, when, in all actuality, she was the small person being crushed by the weight of the world.

Your grades are dropping, Maya.

Make the Dean's list, Maya.

Don't mess up, Maya.

We're all watching you, Maya.

All the voices in her head telling her what to do.

What happens if you fall off, Maya? Who will mourn for you?

Maya stood shakily on the edge of the roof. Yes, that would show them, wouldn't it? If she fell? If she jumped, left behind the expectations and the voices?

We're not enough, Maya. Isn't that why daddy left? Isn't that why Josh left? He said he was worried about us. He told us he wanted us to take care of ourselves first, that we aren't ready and maybe he's not either. But he would be ready for someone else, right? You weren't enough for your dad, but his other children are. You aren't enough for Josh, but someone else probably is.

What's the point of going on if you'll never be whole?

Maya jumped.

"Where have you been?"

Maya rested her forehead against the door, groaning. And she had tried so hard to be quiet…. She should've just snuck in through her window.

Stupid sixteenth-level apartment.

"It's two in the morning, Maya," Farkle scolded. "You couldn't have at least called? I didn't even know you were going out tonight!"

Maya bit back the retort about Farkle's maternal fits. She'd hurt him enough recently. Turning around slowly, suddenly feeling silly with her shoes dangling from her hand, she tiredly explained, "I wasn't out. I went to my parents."

Farkle's distress softened, though his foot still tapped expectantly. "I thought your family was out of town? A doctor's appointment in New Jersey? For TJ?"

Maya nodded affirmatively. "Josh is still in town. And I needed to get away from the apartment." She observed the realization passing through Farkle's eyes, watched his shoulders lose their tension and his hands fall to his sides. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"It's okay." Farkle collapsed onto the couch, the light from the lamp catching his face, and Maya noted the exhausted circles beneath this eyes. "I just—I worry—" He cut himself off, jaw clenched and eyes shut.

Maya knew, could see the images running through his mind. The memories.

She saw them too.

Sighing, she set her shoes and bag on the floor, then shuffled barefooted down the two stair steps separating the entryway and living room. "It's alright to worry," she assured her friend, sitting next to him on the white second-hand couch—the one Riley wanted because every throw pillow in the world would go with white.

Farkle ran a hand down his tired face, from his tousled hair to his scruffy chin—the tell-tale sign of a worn Minkus. "I know that it's been a year and a half since—" He stopped, exhaling a shaky breath that joggled his thin shoulders. "You've come so far, and it's like I'm the one who can't recover."

"It was a lot for you, Farkle," Maya reminded him gently. "All our lives, we never really had to deal with a lot of responsibility. Then, there we were, barely adults, and you had to save a life."

"More than just a life," Farkle muttered, staring grimly at his shoes.

Maya frowned, swallowing. "Yeah." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Have I ever told you you're amazing?"

"Keep saying sweet things to me," the genius teased. "But, yes, you have. I have never doubted that you appreciate me."

"Good." Maya smiled against Farkle's sleeve. "Is Riley asleep?"

Farkle gave her a solemn grin. "Yeah. She was worried about you, too."

The notion hardly surprised Maya. Josh was right; Riley was still her best friend in the world, and they would get through this. Until then, Maya would give her the space they both needed. After tonight. "I'm gonna go check on her."

Standing, she followed the memorized path to Riley's bedroom, directly across from her own. She carefully cracked the door open, letting in just enough light to find Riley's sleeping form beneath her turquoise sheets.

Maya smiled sadly, venturing inside and closing the door behind her. "Hey, you," she whispered, the moonlight streaming through the window guiding her to Riley's bed. She carefully sat on the edge of the bed, hand reaching to stroke Riley's deep chestnut hair. "I know I've been a crap friend lately. There's no excuse for that. But I hope you know I love you."

Riley shifted, moaning lightly.

"Of course you know," Maya mused. "You've always been so much stronger than me, you know?" She blew out a sorrowful sigh, solemnly studied Riley's slumbering face, so peaceful in her sleep. "I know you'd argue, but it's true. You're the stronger one. You're so strong, in fact, that you gave me some of your strength. That's what you see, you know, when you tell me I'm strong. That's your strength."

Riley hummed in her sleep, the trait Maya always teased her about but secretly thought to be adorable.

"Anyways, I just wanted to apologize, because you won't talk to me while you're awake. Not that I blame you." Maya bit her lip, eyes averting to the brunette's dresser where sat a picture of the two of them, two and half years prior, donned in their caps and gowns with their diplomas in hand, Salutatorian medal dangling from Riley's neck and the Honors Art award tucked into Maya's elbow.

How she missed the girls in the photo.

"I love you, Riles." Maya pecked her best friend's hair, then stood. Her eyes traveled from the photo to pill bottle beside it. She picked it up, examining it curiously. She was well-acquainted with prescription medication; she spent most of her life having anti-anxiety and anti-depressants shoved down her throat, but this was no prescription bottle.

Maya twisted the bottle in her hand, searching for a label. As far she knew, Riley wasn't taking anything, but she was a pre-med student at an Ivy League school—even she could use something take the edge off.

Sleeping pills, the blonde mused to herself, quickly recognizing the complicated title on the label. She could hardly blame her friend, though she found herself suppressing the wave of anxiety in her stomach, concerned that Riley should have to take pills in the first place. After all, Maya was always the messed up one. The idea that Riley was struggling to sleep saddened her.

With a sigh, she set the bottle down where she found it, fingers lingering on the edge of the picture frame. "G'night, Honey Bunches," she murmured a final farewell for the night, but as she turned to leave she felt something pull on her hand.

"Wait," came Riley's sleepy plea.

Maya spun back around, finding Riley's languid brown eyes. "Riles?"

Riley's eyes clearly struggled to stay open, heavy lidded and blinking slowly. "I love you, too."

Maya felt a smile tug on the corners of her lips. She nodded once in acceptance, then resumed her exit. Pausing at the doorway, she shot once glance over her shoulder to see Riley quickly recommencing her slumber. Satisfied, she gently shut the door behind her.

It wasn't an "I forgive you," not really. But Riley's response—however half asleep she may have been—was enough to allow Maya to fall asleep with her heart just a little lighter than before.

Michelle Rochester was Maya's only friend in her workspace. At twenty-five, the spunky ginger encased everything Maya ever desired in an older sister—Brooklyn twang and freckled-dotted nose included. Mikey, as the older woman insisted Maya call her, was typically the only person at the gallery who didn't treat Maya as a slave instead of a paid intern.

Today, Mikey was her saving grace.

"I have Dr. Moreau's coffee waiting for you on your desk. Non-fat caramel-silk, oat-milk latte—though one would imagine the 'caramel', 'oat-milk', and 'latte' would imply that there actually is fat."

Maya nearly swooned at the revelation, though part of it was more than likely the off balance of her heels. "Mikey, you're an angel," she all but moaned, hoping she wasn't actually crying.

Mikey sent her a quick smile, but it was adamantly replaced with a concerned frown. "How much sleep did you get last night, Hunter? You're nearly twenty minutes late by Moreau time. You should thank your lucky starts she hasn't walked by your desk yet."

Groaning, Maya practically dragged herself the rest of the way to her small desk. "Not enough hours in the night," (a complaint mostly meant for her own ears). "I don't think I slept more than two hours last night." She plopped into her chair, tossing her bag to the ground beside her and letting her head collapse onto her desk.

"Well, you're gonna wanna hit the espresso machine," Mikey stated, patting Maya's head affectionately. "You're taking notes for the meeting today."

At this, Maya shot upright. "Really?" She eyed her superior skeptically, trying to contain her excitement until Mikey revealed the catch.

"Henderson called in sick—can't say that I blame him—which means the big lady's down a personal assistant."

There it was.

Dr. Moreau's assistant was quite possibly the only person in the gallery the woman treated more poorly than Maya.

Now Maya would be the paid intern and the religious note-taker. Hurray.

"Don't look so down." Mikey perched her slender frame on the edge of Maya's desk, snatching one of the candy canes sitting idly in the blonde's unused "I Hart New York" coffee mug—courtesy of Riley, candy canes included, of course. "Play your cards right, and you could get an in at the gala at MOMA next month."

Maya looked hopelessly up at her friend, uncaring of how pathetic her pout surely made her. "You're acting like this a promotion. Dr. Moreau already hates me enough as an intern. There's no way I'll last an hour as her personal assistant—temporary or not!" She slouched in her chair, pushing off from her toes to spin from side to side. "She's gonna fire me today. It's gonna happen. She's going to fire me and spread my name like the plague and no one will hire me ever again."

"Drama queen."

"I want roses at my funeral."

"Done." Mikey stood, then gestured to the untouched to-go cup on the edge of the desk. "Better get that to She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named before it gets cold."

Maya chewed thoughtfully on her lip as the redhead sauntered away. "She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named," she mused to herself, humming appreciatively.

"Gold."

The word that would surely end her career, of all things, had to be a color.

In Maya's defense, she certainly had nothing to lose. When Dr. Moreau exclaimed, "If someone doesn't give me a good color scheme in the next five-seconds, someone's getting fired!" Maya was ninety-six-percent certain the someone getting fired would be her.

"What?" Dr. Moreau demanded, eyes narrowed skeptically as if she never gathered that Maya could talk.

The blonde tried her hardest not to shrink under the woman's cold, calculated stare, suddenly understanding what every worm went through in the split second before they were snatched up by a bird. "G-Gold?" Her eyes traveled uncertainly to Mikey, who gave her a firm nod and mouthed, "Keep going."

"Speak up, Ms. Hart! I don't have time for this!"

Maya jumped at her boss's command. "Gold," she repeated, not very confidently but at least her voice lacked the wavering this time. "It's like black or white—you can do anything with it. It's a good starting point for any color combo." She wasn't sure why she felt the need to defend her idea, especially considering she tried to speak as little as possible in the presence of Dr. Moreau, but it seemed her tongue refused to listen to her logic.

Dr. Moreau studied her for a little while longer, long crimson fingernails filed to a point, which Maya briefly entertained as talons, tapping against the tabletop. Her wrinkled eyes—because no amount of makeup could fix someone this ancient—fixated in a glare while her burgundy-stained lips pursed thoughtfully. Just as Maya was certain the demon possessing her boss was about to terminate her—perhaps in more ways than one—Dr. Moreau clicked her tongue decisively and said, "I hate it, but we have nothing else to go on."

It was the closest thing to a compliment Maya had yet to receive from the woman.

"Somebody come up with another color that goes with gold and have it on my desk within the hour. Meeting over."

Maya scrambled out of her chair, afraid if she stayed much longer Dr. Moreau would notice something—a loose strand of hair or the shoes she wore—that might upset her.

"Ms. Hart!"

So close.

"Please stay for a moment."

The notepad in between her fingers threatened to slip from her grasp. Straightening her shoulders and hiding her shaking hands behind her back, Maya spun on her heel to face her boss, waiting patiently for the woman to address her.

Dr. Moreau lifted the glasses dangling from her neck, pulling them to her face and letting them settle on her long, pointed nose. "It would do you well to remember your place here," she reminded crossly, her jade-colored eyes appearing more beady through the lens of her angled glasses. "Don't get complacent. You had one idea that was slightly better than the other terrible ones."

Maya swallowed the nervous butterflies in her throat, suddenly feeling so much smaller under Dr. Moreau's glare—even with her four-inch heels. "Of course, ma'am."

"Now get out of my sight." Dr. Moreau gestured for Maya to leave with a flip of her skeletal hand; the young woman hardly needed to be told twice before she shuffled away.

"You're a rockstar, Hunter!"

Maya shrieked in surprise, caught off guard by Mikey's proclamation. "What the hell?"

Unfazed by the younger girl's reaction, Mikey grinned a cheshire smile. "Keep it up, and you'll be getting into that gala and rubbing elbows with MOMA in no time!"

Sighing, Maya traveled the short distance to her desk. "I'm kidding myself if I think I can get into that showing without a fake name, let alone impress the big kids at MOMA." Defeatedly, she fell into her chair and glared viciously at the notes she so dutifully took during the meeting, then opened her laptop and began copying them onto a document.

"You, my dear," Mikey shut her laptop, ignoring Maya's protests, "need to have more faith in yourself." She pointed a well-manicured finger, tapping Maya's nose.

"You know I've edited my portfolio three times for Dr. Moreau?" Maya shut her eyes, covering her face with her hands. "She finally told me to just give up."

Mikey latched onto Maya's wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. "Dr. Moreau isn't the one who hired you. Someone above her hired you because they saw what everyone else except you and Dr. Moreau see."

"Which is?" Maya urged.

Mikey's defiant expression sobered, the upturned corners of her hazel eyes softening as if in a frown. "You really don't see it, do?"

Brow creased with lines of confusion, Maya was helpless to understand. "See what?"

"Your talent, Maya!" Mikey's grip traveled from Maya's wrists to envelop her small hands, squeezing gently. "Your passion and your heart! You visualize like no other artist I've ever known, and clearly the big man who brought you on as our only intern appreciates your perspective. You're special."

Maya's eyes fell to her lap, counting the threads in her skirt.

Special.

"I like this one."

Maya frowned. "You say that about all of my paintings."

"Well, sure." Josh shrugged, eyeing the expanse of canvases splayed across the apartment, some perched against whatever furniture available as they dried. "But this one's different."

Maya glared at the work in progress, an unfinished canvas splattered in every color on her pallet, a swirl of confusion and misinterpretation. Even she had no clue what to do with it, nevertheless what it meant. "I hate it," she grumbled, crossing her arms.

Josh stood beside her, crossing his arms over his chest in an identical fashion, but tilted his head in study. "Oh, it's not that bad, Hart." He clapped her on the back. "It's just not finished yet. Right now, it's a work in progress, a little rough around the edges and maybe a little unsure. But give it time, a little TLC, and when it's finished, I bet it'll be something beautiful."

Maya could sense the double meaning in his explanation. Her heart soared at the hidden encouragement, then fell as she continued to examine the mess of paint on the canvas. "How can you know?" she demanded, frustrated. "How can a mess like that ever become something beautiful?" She threw her arms towards the half-finished painting in a wild, questioning gesture.

Seemingly unfazed by her interrogation, Josh smiled down at her. "Because you're special, Hart."

Maya shook her head stubbornly, offset by the sincerity and intensity of Josh's sapphire gaze. "You always say that, but what the hell is it supposed to mean?"

Josh took a brave step toward her, so that he was close enough to reach for her. He pulled her to his chest, one hand grasping her hip and the other cradling the back of her head, and kissed the top of her hair. "I have no doubt that you will turn this into something amazing," he murmured against her hair. "Maybe you can't see it, but other people do. You, Maya Hunter, are extraordinary. You're something special."

"Maya?"

Mikey's hand waved in front of her face, obstructing her view of her lap, and Maya snapped from the memory. "Everyone keeps saying that," she muttered, discouraged.

"Because it's true," Mikey retorted. "You'll see, Hunter. Give it time." She squeezed Maya's shoulder supportively.

Maya closed her eyes. "I need to document these notes," she excused, opening her laptop to the blank document. She heard Mikey sigh from behind her, the comforting hand leaving her shoulder dejectedly, but she had neither the energy nor the motivation to continue discussing her creative predicaments.

She would not abandon the small amount of approval she earned from Dr. Moreau by turning these notes in late.

Since note-taking was all she was good for, nowadays.