Zariah started skipping meals.
It wasn't a decision, not really. She'd sit at the table and stare at her plate, then quietly push food around with her fork until her mom looked away. At school, she'd toss her lunch untouched or say she "ate earlier." No one pushed back. No one noticed how her clothes hung looser. Or how her lips were always dry.
Except Jasmine. Always Jasmine.
"You haven't been eating," she said one afternoon, voice low. "I can see it."
Zariah looked away. "I'm just not hungry."
"Liar."
Zariah didn't respond. She couldn't. Her stomach growled, but the ache in her chest was louder. Eating felt like effort. And lately, everything felt like effort—breathing, blinking, even existing.
She wasn't sleeping either. Her mind wouldn't let her. Every time she closed her eyes, her thoughts screamed louder. Flashbacks. What-ifs. Memories of that message. Of Mr. Harmon's voice. Of the way her own fingers trembled over a blade now, not in fear, but in craving.
She cut again.
And again.
It wasn't even about feeling something anymore—it was about control. About releasing what she couldn't say out loud. Every line across her skin was a sentence she couldn't form. A scream she swallowed. A pain she chose, because at least it made sense.
At school, she still got straight As. Still turned in homework. Still answered questions when called on. But her smile was gone. Her jokes, too. Even Jasmine was starting to slip away—not out of carelessness, but out of fear. Zariah could see it: the helplessness in her eyes, the way she hesitated before speaking now.
One night, Zariah stood in the shower for almost an hour, letting scalding water pour over her like it could burn the sadness out. When she got out, the mirror was foggy, but she wiped it anyway.
She stared at her reflection. Pale. Hollow-eyed. A stranger in her own skin.
And then she whispered it—barely audible.
"I don't want to be here anymore."
And for the first time… she meant it.