I watched as she perched on the edge of the bed, her fingers white-knuckled around the bag. She didn’t unpack. She didn’t even move.
My heart pounded so loud I could hear it in my ears.
There was another person here.
In my room.
In my space.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to grab all my stuffed animals and crawl under the bed and hide where no one could touch me.
Instead, I slid off the bed and crawled over to my coloring book.
Purple crayon. My favorite. It made the dragons look magical. I began to color, pressing hard enough that the crayon tip nearly snapped. My breath came fast, shallow. The room felt smaller. My head felt floaty.
I rocked slightly, humming under my breath. A soft, high-pitched tune. A lullaby I barely remembered.
Corinne watched me. I could feel her gaze.
Finally, she whispered, “What are you coloring?”
I froze.
My fingers tightened around the crayon.
I swallowed hard, throat tight. “A dragon.”
She hesitated, then asked, “Can I see?”
Slowly—so slowly—I tilted the page toward her.
Her lips twitched, almost a smile. “It’s good.”
A hot rush of relief flooded through me. My shoulders sagged. “Thanks.”
I crawled closer, still clutching the bunny to my chest. “Do you like dragons?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “I… I don’t know.”
I giggled softly, a sound that came out high and thin. “You should. They’re magic.”
A long silence fell between us.
I hated it.
The quiet. The waiting. The way my mind spun and spun, filling the gaps with sharp, mean thoughts.
So I blurted, “Did you cry today?”
Her eyes widened. She looked like I’d slapped her.
“I—I…” Her voice broke. She stared down at her hands. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
I nodded solemnly. “Me too. I cry when they take my food away. When they say I have to eat more. When they say I can’t go outside until I finish my meal.”
Her lips parted, a tiny breath escaping. Something softened in her face.
“I don’t eat much either,” she whispered.
