Author's Note: Heyyyy *ducks fast as one person from an angry mob throws a tomato at me*…I know, my absence is uncalled for. Life is life-y. Last time I posted was 2018 (I was 21-22 years old then). I promise I will do my best to update as frequently as possible.

Crazy how time flies lol. PM me, I'd like to know y'all are doing these days. If you are still reading this story, I'd like to say thank you so much for giving this story so much life.

Anyway, let's get straight to the plot.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.

Warning: Depressing.

The sky hung heavy, a dull sheet of gray that stretched endlessly above Wuncler Memorial Cemetery.

A bitter wind swept through the rows of mourners, ruffling the black coats and veils of those gathered. The rain had held off—barely—but the weight of grief settled over the crowd like a suffocating fog. It was as if the heavens themselves wept, not with rain, but with the ache of a soul departing too soon. God was taking back one of His own, an angel who had walked this earth too softly, too kindly for a world so undeserving. He was cradling her now, lifting her spirit from the misery of betrayal and heartbreak, saving her from a place that had only sought to break her down. And yet, for those left behind, the loss was a gaping wound, raw and untended, a pain that no sermon, no whispered condolences, could ever hope to soothe.

She could still feel it, the warmth of her mother's hand as she smoothed down her curls one night, whispering,

"You'll always be my baby, Jazzy. I'll always be here."

But she wasn't here.

Not anymore.

Jazmine DuBois stood near the front, stiff as a statue, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The dark dress she wore hung loose on her frame, as if she had already begun to wither away. The once elegant fabric sagged against her shoulders, slightly oversized now, evidence of the weight she had lost without noticing. The hem brushed against her ankles, revealing scuffed black flats, shoes she hadn't bothered to polish. Her usually vibrant curls had been hastily pulled into a low, uneven bun, stray strands frizzing around her face from the damp air. Her arms, bare despite the chill, had an unnatural stillness to them—as if any movement might shatter what little strength she had left. She didn't cry. She didn't move. She simply stared down at the casket, the polished mahogany reflecting the dim light.

Cindy stood beside her, bravely holding Jazmine's hand, though she knew her best friend wasn't truly there. The grip was loose, lifeless—as if Jazmine had forgotten how to hold on to anything at all. Cindy squeezed tighter anyway, willing herself to be an anchor, a reminder that she was still here, still surrounded by love.

She had known Mrs. DuBois since childhood. In many ways, she had been like an aunt, a second mother figure, always quick with a warm smile or a knowing look whenever the girls got into trouble. Cindy could still hear her voice in the back of her mind, full of wisdom and laughter.

It had always been said that children were meant to bury their parents first. But knowing that didn't make it feel any less cruel, any less unfair. She left the world too early. Too soon. And now, Jazmine was left behind, shattered in the wake of her absence.

Riley lingered in the back with Huey, arms crossed, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Funerals. He and Huey had attended too many—first for family, then for brothers lost to the streets. Each one had left a scar, a quiet promise that they would never return to another. And yet, here they were. Standing in the cold, watching as another life was lowered into the ground. Another soul gone too soon. Even now, Riley could feel the weight of that unspoken irony pressing down on them both. Neither of them had any words left to give.

The priest's voice droned on, delivering a sermon about peace, acceptance, moving forward—all things that felt impossibly far away.

"The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away," he intoned solemnly, his voice echoing through the stillness. "But we must find comfort in knowing that He calls His children home when their work here is done."

Jazmine barely blinked, but the words sank their claws into her. Her mother's work wasn't done. She still had so much to live for, so much to experience. Jazmine could still hear her laughter in the kitchen, smell her perfume lingering in the hallway. Was that really all erased in an instant? Was she really supposed to accept that God had simply decided it was time?

"We grieve, but not without hope," the priest continued. "For those who have left us live on in our hearts, in our memories."

A memory surfaced, unbidden. Her mother tucking her into bed, whispering lullabies in soft, tired tones. 'No matter what happens, baby, I'll always be with you.'

But you're not, Mama. You're not here.

Jazmine's grip on Cindy's hand slackened slightly, her breath shallow, but she remained silent.

"She is at peace now," the priest assured them. "Free from the burdens of this world, no longer weighed down by suffering."

A flash of her mother smiling despite the pain, hiding the growing weakness in her limbs. The slow decline, the exhaustion she tried to disguise. The reality that her suffering was never acknowledged until it was too late.

Jazmine's fingers curled into her palms.

Peace? There was no peace in dying like that.

The words of the sermon blurred together, white noise against the storm raging inside her. She couldn't cry. She couldn't scream. She could only stand there, drowning in the weight of memories, knowing they were all she had left.

And then, the moment came.

The lowering of the casket.

A heavy silence fell over the crowd, punctuated only by the shuffling of feet and quiet, stifled sobs. Cindy bowed her head, biting her lip. Riley looked away. Huey watched only Jazmine.

She didn't flinch.

Not when the casket descended into the earth.

Not when her relatives murmured condolences.

Not when her grandmother, overcome with unbearable sorrow, ran toward the descending casket. Her frail legs gave out beneath her, sending her crashing to the damp earth. She didn't care.

She clawed at the dirt, her voice raw with grief, sobbing and begging the Lord to give her daughter back. The cries were piercing, cutting through the heavy silence, an agony too deep to be contained. "Please, God! Please! Take me instead! Give her back! She was just a child! She was just my baby!" Her wails carried through the cemetery, breaking whatever resolve the other mourners had left. Some turned away, unable to witness such heartbreak. Others tried to help her to her feet, but she fought against them, refusing to let go. "Not my baby! Not my baby!" she screamed, her hands trembling as she reached for the casket, as if she could will it back to the surface.

Jazmine remained motionless, staring straight ahead, unmoved by the cries of a mother losing her child. But deep inside, something cracked, splintering beneath the weight of her grandmother's grief. A pain too heavy, too vast to process. But she didn't move. She didn't cry. She just stood there, numb, as if she too had been buried that day.

And definitely not when Thomas DuBois approached.

He had been sitting near the back, out of place among the mourners, wearing a mask of grief that only fools would believe.

Jazmine could barely stomach the sight of him. This man—the same man who had ignored her mother's pain, who had spent nights with women whose names he didn't bother remembering, who had let his own wife waste away while he indulged in his vices—now had the audacity to stand here and pretend to grieve?

The memories came unbidden. The whispered phone calls late at night, the stench of perfume that didn't belong to her mother clinging to his shirts, the hollow excuses. "It's just work, Jazmine." "You're imagining things, Jazmine." The way her mother had simply smiled, too exhausted to fight anymore, too resigned to believe in something better.

And now, he stood before his daughter, voice soft, calculated.

"Jazmine," he said, reaching for her shoulder. "I know this is hard—"

The nerve.

The audacity.

Her body moved before she could stop it.

She spat in his face—

Not just in disgust, but in absolute, unfiltered rage. It wasn't just spit. It was everything. Every moment of silent suffering. Every tear her mother had cried alone in their bedroom. Every night spent waiting, hoping for him to walk through the door only to be greeted with the scent of another woman's perfume clinging to his clothes. Every whispered argument, every "it's just work, Jazmine", every fake apology he had ever given.

It landed on his cheek, warm and deliberate, a mark of the contempt she could never put into words. A declaration of hate, of betrayal, of finality.

Gasps rippled through the funeral crowd. Someone's plate of food clattered to the ground. Cindy's lips parted in shock. Riley's eyes widened. Even Huey, who rarely ever let surprise show on his face, blinked at the action.

Tom DuBois froze, his body rigid as the saliva slid down his cheek. He wiped it away slowly, his fingers trembling slightly, but he didn't react. Didn't yell. Didn't scold her.

Because he knew.

And she did too.

Jazmine turned without a word, her face eerily calm, walking away, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost, leaving behind the ruins of whatever bond they once shared.

Opposites Attract

:*´¨`*:.•.¸¸.•´¯`•. +/- .•´¯`•.¸¸.•..:*´¨`*:

Chapter 12: Something

The guest room had become a prison over the past two weeks. The air inside was stale, weighed down by neglect, the curtains permanently drawn, shutting out any light. Uneaten meals stacked up on the nightstand, the scent of cold food mixing with the distant lavender of old fabric softener. A once neatly made bed was now a tangled mess of sheets, evidence of restless nights spent staring at the ceiling.

Huey Freeman stood at the threshold, arms folded.

Jazmine hadn't spoken. Hadn't moved. Hadn't lived.

She had been granted excused absences from school, the administration citing extenuating circumstances. She hadn't attended the funeral—not really. She had been there in body, but her mind had been elsewhere. Cindy held her hand during the service, Riley standing in the back with Huey, both scanning for any sign of an emotional reaction.

There had been none.

But everyone had seen what had happened between Jazmine and her father.

Tom DuBois had arrived at the funeral posing as the grieving husband, his demeanor carefully calculated—mournful, yet dignified. He had moved through the service as though he weren't the reason she was dead. As though Jazmine didn't already know the truth.

And when he had approached her, offering gentle, rehearsed condolences, Jazmine had spat in his face.

The entire funeral hall had gone silent. The gasp from her aunt, the shifting of feet, the murmurs in the background—it was all drowned out by the way Tom had just stood there, wiping his face, but saying nothing.

Because what could he say?

They both knew. They both knew.

Jazmine hadn't uttered a single word. She had simply walked away, her face unreadable, her body stiff, disappearing into the crowd as if she had never been there at all.

And now, two weeks later, she still hadn't come back to herself.

Huey exhaled, stepping inside. He didn't expect much—she hadn't responded the last time.

Every day, he brought her food, hoping she'd at least acknowledge it.

The little time they had known her, he had noticed her strange but consistent food preferences. She religiously ate Lucky Charms cereal cold, with extra marshmallows, carefully separating them from the oat pieces before taking a bite. It had been one of the first things he picked up on about her—a small detail that felt so uniquely Jazmine.

So, he brought it daily, setting it quietly on her nightstand.

It hadn't worked once.

Each morning, he found the bowl exactly where he had left it, untouched, the milk thickening as it sat out overnight. Yet, he kept bringing it, as if waiting for the day she'd finally pick up the spoon again.

And then there were the fresh sets of clothes. Every day, without fail, Huey had brought in a neatly folded outfit, setting it at the foot of the bed, hoping she'd take it.

She never did.

He wasn't sure when she had last showered. He didn't want to assume, but the way her once bright curls hung lifelessly and how she never changed out of the same oversized hoodie and sweatpants said enough. It wasn't about neglect—it was about complete apathy.

"Jazmine."

No response. She sat on the bed, her body curled inward, gaze locked onto a fixed point beyond him. Her curls, which she once took so much pride in, were messy and lifeless, as though she had long stopped caring. Her skin, always radiant, looked dull, as if the color had drained along with her spirit. The weight of grief had hollowed her out.

Huey waited for her to shift, to blink, to do something. Nothing.

He sighed, his fingers tightening at his sides.

"Is this what your mom would want?"

Still, nothing. Just an empty stare. Her green eyes, usually so full of life, were vacant.

Something twisted in his chest.

He wasn't unfamiliar with grief, with loss. It had been years since his grandfather passed away, and yet, watching Jazmine like this? It was like looking at his own reflection from back then.

Except back then, he had buried himself in action. In work, in survival, in making sure Riley never saw him break.

Jazmine had done the opposite.

She had let it consume her.

Huey clenched his jaw, stepping back toward the door.

She wasn't going to respond.

Not today.

:*´¨`*:.•.¸¸.•´¯`•. +/- .•´¯`•.¸¸.•..:*´¨`*:

Cindy McPhearson dreaded stepping inside the school alone, but Riley had walked her to the gates as usual. She lingered for a moment, scanning the familiar yet strangely unsettling scenery of Edgar J. Hoover's campus

On the surface, nothing had changed. The towering brick walls still stood proudly, untouched by the weight of grief she carried. The neatly trimmed hedges, the pristine schoolyard—everything still gave the illusion of perfection. Groups of students huddled in their usual spots, their voices light, carefree, detached from the harsh realities of the outside world.

But to Cindy, everything felt wrong.

For the past two weeks, she had kept her head down, moving from class to class like a ghost, trying not to attract attention—not just for Jazmine's sake, but for her own safety. Dewey's presence still lingered like an unseen shadow, and she knew better than to make herself a target. No unnecessary drama. No reckless moves. Just stay low and survive.

But today? There was no avoiding it.

She could feel the eyes on her before she even stepped inside. Whispers trailed behind her like an unwelcome echo, students exchanging glances, itching to corner her with questions she didn't want to answer.

Riley shifted beside her. "You good?" His tone was casual, but she knew him well enough to hear the underlying concern.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders back. "Yeah."

Riley raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Cindy forced a smirk. "I said what I said."

He sucked his teeth, shaking his head. "A'ight. Just say the word if anybody gets slick."

She turned to face him fully, crossing her arms. "Oh yeah? What you gon' do, Freeman? Hop the fence and slap a schoolgirl?"

Riley gave a lazy smirk. "Man, don't test me. I got hands for everybody."

Cindy let out a quiet chuckle, but it was short-lived. The reality of the school day loomed over her like a storm waiting to break.

Riley must've noticed because his expression shifted, his smirk fading. He could read her too well.

"For real, though," he muttered, "don't let 'em get to you."

Cindy's smirk faltered for just a second. "Yeah." She nodded. "I know."

With that, she turned and walked through the gates alone, stepping into a world that no longer felt like hers.

The moment she entered the building, she could feel it—the shift in the air, the sudden hush of voices, the eyes that trailed her every move.

They've been waiting for this.

She kept walking, past lockers, past classrooms, past groups of girls whispering behind cupped hands. Some tried to make their concern seem genuine, their faces etched with carefully crafted sympathy, but Cindy could see through the act.

The vultures were circling.

She reached her locker, exhaling sharply as she entered the combination. Maybe if she moved fast enough, they'd leave her alone.

No such luck.

"Cindy! How's Jazmine?"

She froze, her fingers hovering over the dial.

Here we go.

"Is she coming back soon?"

She clenched her jaw. Just keep going. Just ignore them.

"She still not talking to anyone?"

Her breath came out slow, steady. She could handle this.

Then someone said it.

"I mean, it's just a parent, right? People lose them all the time."

Everything stopped.

The words hit like a gunshot, ricocheting through her skull.

Just a parent.
 Just a parent.
 Just a parent.

Her grip on her locker tightened until her knuckles turned white.

Then, before she even realized what she was doing, her sneakers screeched against the tile as she turned sharply, eyes locked onto the girl who had spoken.

"Say that again."

The hallway fell silent.

The girl—some sophomore Cindy barely knew—shrank back, her confidence crumbling under the weight of Cindy's glare.

"I—I didn't mean—"

"Nah, you did," Cindy cut in, her tone sharp as a blade. "You said it, so say it again."

The girl swallowed hard, glancing at her friends for backup. None of them moved.

"That's what I thought," Cindy spat, her anger barely contained. She slammed her locker shut so hard the sound echoed down the hallway. "Don't ever let that dumbass shit come out your mouth again."

The hallway was dead silent as Cindy stormed away, hands shaking with rage.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She yanked it out.

Text from Riley:
"You were right. They got to me."

Cindy sighed, running a hand through her hair. She hesitated for a second before typing back.

Text to Riley:
"Say less."

She stuffed her phone into her hoodie pocket and made her way to class, pretending she wasn't still seething.

The walk to English class felt longer than usual. Each step past students who threw side glances her way, past teachers who barely acknowledged her presence, reminded her of how out of place she felt. The weight of the past few weeks clung to her like a second skin. She had become a ghost in her own world, drifting through school, waiting for something—anything—to snap her back into reality.

When she finally entered the classroom, she kept her head down and moved straight to her seat. The teacher had already started the lesson, barely glancing up as Cindy slid into her chair at the back of the room.

The muffled sounds of chalk against the board, the scratch of pens on paper, the occasional cough from a classmate—it all blurred into a dull hum. She stared blankly at the desk in front of her.

Her mind wandered. Not to the lesson. Not to anything happening in the room. But to the state of her life.

She had cut off her mother for good. That bridge had burned long before Mrs. DuBois' passing, and Cindy had convinced herself she had made peace with it—or so she thought. But now? Now she was homeless, crashing at Huey's place because there was nowhere else to go. She never spoke about it, never let it show, but the instability followed her everywhere, gnawing at the back of her mind.

School was supposed to be her way out. Her escape. If she played her cards right, if her grades stayed sharp, she could get the hell out of Woodcrest. Far away from this place. Far away from everything.

But then, there was Jazmine.

Her best friend, her sister in everything but blood—a girl who was barely holding on. Cindy could pretend all she wanted, but deep down, she knew that if she left, if she really walked away to chase some distant dream, she might be leaving Jazmine behind in more ways than one.

And that thought?

That scared her more than anything.

:*´¨`*:.•.¸¸.•´¯`•. +/- .•´¯`•.¸¸.•..:*´¨`*:

Riley Freeman had been waiting for this moment.

He stood outside of Edgar J. Hoover, leaning against a nearby lamppost, hands tucked into his pockets. He could already tell from Cindy's text that the school day had gone exactly how he expected—full of fake concern and loose-lipped fools running their mouths where they shouldn't.

The moment he spotted the girl who disrespected Jazmine, he pushed off the lamppost and started walking.

He didn't need to ask who it was—Cindy's reaction had told him everything he needed to know.

The girl was standing near the front entrance with a couple of her friends, laughing like she hadn't just disrespected the dead.

Riley didn't raise his voice. Didn't rush. Didn't need to.

Instead, he approached calmly, his presence alone enough to make the group quiet down. They all knew who he was—Riley Freeman didn't need an introduction.

He stopped just a foot away, hands still in his pockets. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto the girl.

"You the one talkin' reckless about Jazmine?"

Her laughter died instantly. The color drained from her face as she looked around, as if searching for a teacher or someone to save her.

"I—I wasn't—"

"Say it again," Riley interrupted, voice low, steady. "See what happens."

The tension was thick. Her friends shrunk back, pretending they weren't involved. Smart move.

"I didn't mean it like that…" the girl stammered, but even she knew it was too late.

Riley tilted his head slightly, considering. Then, he took a step forward. The girl flinched, instinctively stepping back.

"Ion' care how you meant it," he said, his tone almost bored. "You lucky Cindy checked you first. 'Cause if she didn't…" he let the sentence hang in the air, letting her imagination fill in the blanks.

She swallowed hard, nodding rapidly, her eyes darting toward the ground.

Riley didn't need to do more. He had made his point.

"Next time," he said, voice dropping just enough that only she could hear, "watch your mouth."

Without another word, he turned and walked off, leaving the girl standing there, looking like she'd just had a near-death experience.

He pulled out his phone and texted Cindy:

"Handled."

Then, without another glance, he walked off, the weight of the day already settling on his shoulders.

But it wasn't just today's events pressing down on him. It was something deeper, something familiar. He had seen this before—this kind of mourning, this kind of silent suffering.

He had lived it.

Losing Granddad had been a different kind of hell. He and Huey had handled it in their own ways—Huey, burying himself in responsibility, in control. Riley? He had tried to do the same, acting like it hadn't gutted him, like it hadn't left an emptiness he didn't know how to fill.

But some nights, when it was just him and the quiet, he had felt it. The loneliness. The weight of moving forward without the one person who held it all together.

And now, he saw that same emptiness in Jazmine.

Riley wasn't the type to say much. He wasn't the type to get all emotional. But damn if he didn't feel for her. For what she lost. For the way she was drowning in it.

With a final glance back at the school gates, he exhaled, his jaw tightening.

He didn't know how to help her. But if there was one thing he did know, it was this—she wasn't gonna go through it alone.

:*´¨`*:.•.¸¸.•´¯`•. +/- .•´¯`•.¸¸.•..:*´¨`*:

The Freeman house was quiet, the weight of Jazmine's grief lingering in the air like an unshakable presence. Huey sat on the couch, arms folded, his expression unreadable as he stared at the flickering TV screen that no one was really watching. The show playing in the background didn't matter. What mattered was the girl locked away in the guest room, sinking deeper into a silence that none of them knew how to break.

The front door swung open, breaking the stillness. Cindy and Riley stepped inside, their expressions telling Huey everything he needed to know before they even spoke. It hadn't been a good day.

Cindy dropped her bag on the floor, rubbing her temple as she plopped onto the couch beside Huey.

"Same shit, different day," she muttered, exhaling sharply. "She didn't say a damn word to me this morning. Not even a nod. Just…nothing."

Riley, who had been standing near the doorway, pulled off his hoodie and tossed it onto the armchair before sitting on the armrest next to Cindy.

"Ayo, she eat anything yet?"

Huey shook his head. "Nope."

"Damn." Riley leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He had been hoping for any sign of progress, even something small. But two weeks had passed, and Jazmine was still barely existing.

Cindy tapped her fingers against her knee, her face twisting with frustration.

"I don't know what to do anymore, man. Like—I get it, she lost her mom, but she can't just—" She stopped herself, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just being selfish, expecting her to bounce back when she's still…"

"Broken," Huey finished for her, his voice calm, even. Cindy glanced at him, surprised that he had said it so plainly. But there was no judgment in his tone—just understanding.

"Yeah," she admitted. "Broken."

Riley exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Man, I been through some shit, but this? This different." He rubbed his palms together, leaning forward. "It's like… I don't even know if she wanna come back from it."

Silence settled between them for a moment, heavy and suffocating. The three of them—all fighters in their own right—had no idea how to fight this battle for Jazmine.

"She's gonna have to want it," Huey finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "We can't make her."

Cindy frowned, gripping a couch cushion. "So what? We just sit back and let her rot in that room?"

"No," Huey said, standing up. "We keep trying. Even if she doesn't respond. Even if it doesn't seem like it's doing anything." He ran a hand over his afro, sighing. "Because if we stop, then we really lose her."

Cindy and Riley exchanged a look. As much as they hated to admit it, Huey was right. Jazmine was still in there somewhere. And no matter how long it took, they weren't about to give up on her.

"Alright," Cindy finally said, standing up with a newfound determination. "Let's keep trying."

Riley nodded, stretching his arms behind his head. "Yeah. Can't let her go out like this."

Cindy hesitated for a moment, biting her lip. "I, uh… I've been in contact with her mom's side of the family." She sighed. "They reached out to me about a will hearing coming up soon. They want her to be there."

Huey narrowed his eyes slightly, considering it. "Does she know?"

"No," Cindy admitted. "And honestly? I don't even know if she'd want to go."

Another heavy silence. The weight of that decision hung in the air between them. None of them knew how Jazmine would react. But sooner or later, she'd have to face it.

Huey simply gave a small nod before glancing toward the hallway leading to Jazmine's room. He knew what he had to do.

:*´¨`*:.•.¸¸.•´¯`•. +/- .•´¯`•.¸¸.•..:*´¨`*:

The house was quiet that night, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards or the distant hum of a passing car outside. Huey had always been used to silence, had even welcomed it most of his life. But this wasn't normal silence.

This was an absence.

Jazmine might've been in that guest room, but she wasn't really there.

Huey stood outside her door again, same as before, a fresh set of clothes in one hand and a bowl of Lucky Charms in the other. He stared at the closed door for a long time, jaw tight, debating whether or not this was even worth it.

She hadn't acknowledged him the last time. Or the time before that. Or the time before that.

Still, he knocked.

No response.

Not that he expected one.

He opened the door, stepping inside. The air was stale, untouched, like a space frozen in time. The pile of untouched bowls on the nightstand remained, her bed was still a mess of tangled sheets, and Jazmine was still exactly where he left her.

Sitting on the edge of the bed. Motionless. Distant. A ghost of the girl she used to be.

Huey exhaled through his nose, placing the bowl on the nightstand as he had done every day for the past two weeks. The folded clothes were set beside her bed, within reach, but he knew she wouldn't touch them.

This time, though, he didn't leave.

Instead, he sat down on the floor, his back resting against the wall across from her. He didn't try to talk to her. Didn't try to force a reaction.

He just stayed.

Minutes passed, maybe an hour.

Huey didn't know. He simply let the silence settle between them, a different kind of presence this time. A presence that said, I'm here, even if you don't want me to be.

And as he sat there, arms folded over his chest, he let his mind wander. To her. To how they even got here.

He never expected to grow close to Jazmine DuBois. In fact, there was a time when he thought of her as nothing more than an overly cheerful, naive girl who saw the world through rose-colored glasses. But somewhere along the way, she became more than that. She became his friend.

And that? That was dangerous.

Huey Freeman didn't do attachment. He didn't do comforting. That wasn't who he was. He was the strategist, the realist, the one who kept his emotions buried so deep that no one could ever use them against him. And yet—

Here he was. Sitting in a dark room, waiting on a girl who hadn't spoken in weeks. Bringing her food, he knew she wouldn't eat. Leaving out clothes he knew she wouldn't wear. Hoping for something—anything—that would make her show even the smallest sign that she was still in there.

He had gotten soft.

Only with her.

And that pissed him off.

Before he left, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a book. A worn, slightly creased copy of Beauty and the Beast. Huey wasn't a fan of Disney. At all. But he knew Jazmine was. She always had been. Even back when he first came to their school, the Disney books on her lap were the first thing he noticed. Before the weight of the world started pressing down on them, she'd ramble on about fairy tales—about love, about magic, about happy endings that never seemed to exist in the real world.

He didn't get it. He never had.

But he brought the book anyway. Because it wasn't about him.

It was about her.

He set it down gently on the nightstand, beside the untouched cereal and the ever-growing pile of folded clothes she never wore. He wasn't expecting her to pick it up. Hell, he wasn't even sure she'd look at it. But still, he left it there, like a silent reminder that someone still saw her. That someone still cared.

The door clicked shut.

Jazmine sat there, her stiff fingers resting in her lap, still staring blankly at the wall.

For a moment, nothing changed.

Then, her gaze flickered slightly. A shift so small it was barely noticeable.

Her eyes drifted toward the nightstand, landing on the book.

The familiar worn-out cover. The creased pages. A fragment of her past self, left there like a whisper of who she used to be.

Her fingers twitched.

Then—a single tear slipped down her cheek.

She barely even noticed.

But for the first time in weeks…

She felt…something.

Author's note: I had to reread my story to understand where I had left off. And I forgot how annoyingly innocent Jazz was lol. Welp, that'll change, from here onward. Do you think this will change her for the best or the worst?