She blames herself for a patient who died over a year ago.
And she's pretending everything's fine because that's what Maya does. Puts on a show of strength while she's drowning.
I can't tell Emma, can't tell Chase, can't tell anyone without betraying Maya's privacy.
But I also can't just donothing.
"Hey." The word comes out before I can stop it.
She looks up from the bag of apples. "Yeah?"
"If you ever need anything. Or want to talk. I'm around."
Something flickers across her face. Pain, maybe. Or surprise. It's gone before I can name it.
"I know." She turns back to the apples, her shoulders tensing. "Thanks."
That's it. That's all I get.
I grab my water and head for the basement stairs, and I swear I can feel her watching me leave.
In my room, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the wall.
Seven days.She's been here seven days, and I've watched her fall apart in slow motion without understanding why.
Now I understand. And it's so much worse than I imagined.
Someone hurt her, violated her, and instead of getting justice, she got fired and lost everything.
The rage is back, burning hot in my chest. I want to hit something, want to find whoever did this and make him hurt the way he hurt her.
But violence won't fix this, won't help Maya heal.
She needs therapy. Real therapy, with someone who specializes in sexual assault. She needs support, needs someone who knows what they're doing, needs help. I don't know how to give.
I lie back on my bed and close my eyes, but all I see are those pages. Her handwriting, the drawings of blades and bodies, and all the ways she's thought about ending it.
She's thinking about killing herself.
The thought makes my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
I can't lose her, can't watch her disappear, can't stand by while she cuts herself and plans ways to die.
But I also can't tell her I read her journal, can't confront her directly because she'd shut down and probably leave.
So what do I do?
How do I help someone who doesn't want to be helped? Who's so good at faking it that nobody notices she's drowning?
Above me, I hear footsteps. Maya moving around the kitchen, the sound of water running, a cabinet closing.
She's up there right now, pretending everything's fine.
And I'm down here, knowing the truth, terrified of what happens next.
Because I read her journal, and now I know.
She's not okay. She's never been less okay.
