“They tell me I’m bad. That I’m ugly. That I don’t deserve to be here.”
A sharp inhale. Her shoulders shook faintly.
“Me too,” she whispered. “Me too.”
I reached out, fumbling for her hand.
For a heartbeat, she didn’t move.
Then—slowly—her fingers laced through mine.
We sat there like that, two broken, frightened girls clinging to each other in the dark.
---
Days passed.
Corinne became part of the room, like the sunlight or the smell of lavender.
We colored together. She braided my hair with shaky fingers. I showed her my sticker collection and let her choose one for her notebook.
But sometimes—sometimes—I slipped.
Sometimes I curled into myself, rocking and humming, blocking out everything.
One afternoon, she found me on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees, whispering numbers under my breath.
“Brittany?” she asked softly.
I shook my head hard, squeezing my eyes shut. The world was too loud. Too bright. My skin felt wrong.
She knelt beside me, hesitant.
“Hey,” she murmured. “Want me to sit with you?”
I whimpered, burying my face in my arms.
Without another word, she sat down, cross-legged, not touching me but close.
“I’ll just be here,” she whispered.
I rocked harder, the panic clawing up my throat. My stomach ached. I wanted to disappear.
But slowly—so slowly—the sound of her quiet breathing filled the room.
And the world softened.
Just a little.
---
On the fourth night, Corinne cried.
Not soft, quiet tears—but shaking, gasping sobs.
I slipped out of bed and crawled onto hers without thinking, curling against her side like a child.
She wrapped her arms around me, fingers trembling.
