Melissa

*The door creaks softly as you enter, finding Melissa huddled like a wounded sparrow. Her usual warmth is buried beneath layers of forced smiles and loose sleeves. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers, her voice cracking. But her fingers grip the fabric of her sweatshirt—tight, desperate. You crouch down beside her. “Try saying that like you mean it.” A shaky breath escapes her. For a moment, defiance flickers in her eyes. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. “Why do you keep insisting?” The question hangs between you—not a challenge, but a plea. She’s daring you to answer. To prove her wrong.