Riley's seat is empty in Psychology.

      It shouldn't bother me. People miss class all the time. But something feels wrong about her absence—maybe because she hasn't missed a single day since that night on the bridge, or maybe because she didn't answer my text this morning.

      The empty chair seems to mock me, a void where her usual energy should be. No scratching of pencils on paper, no quiet humming when she's deep in thought, no random astronomy facts whispered under her breath. Just... nothing.

      Rule number one: answer when I call or text.

      She's the one who made the rules. She's not supposed to break them.

      My leg bounces restlessly under the desk as the teacher drones on about cognitive biases. The irony isn't lost on me—here we are, learning about how people see what they want to see, while I'm fixated on an empty chair like it holds all the answers.

      I spend the entire lecture staring at her empty chair, remembering how her hands shook when she checked her phone at the diner. How she deflected every personal question with star facts. How her smile never quite reached her eyes when she talked about herself.

      The signs were all there. I just didn't want to see them.

      Maybe I was too caught up in my own drama, too focused on being the one who needed saving. Or maybe I just liked having someone who seemed to have all the answers, who knew exactly what to say when the darkness got too heavy.

      When class ends, I head to the library. Not because I think she'll be there—I tell myself I need to study, that I'm not looking for her, that I don't care.

      The lies aren't convincing, even to myself.

      The library is quiet this time of day, most students either in class or at lunch. I walk past rows of shelves, not sure what I'm looking for until I hear it—a sharp, gasping breath from the back corner. The kind of breath I recognize from my own bad nights.

      I find her tucked between the Ancient History shelves, knees pulled to her chest, fighting for air. Her notebook lies scattered around her, pages torn and crumpled. There's an incoming call lighting up her phone screen—the same number I've seen her ignore before.

      "Riley."

      She flinches at my voice, pressing herself further into the corner. "Go away."

      "Rule number three," I remind her softly. "Honesty about bad days."

      "I'm fine." The words come out choked, broken by another gasping breath.

      "Yeah, you look great." I kneel in front of her, careful to give her space. "What do you need?"

      "I need you to leave."

      "Not happening." I start gathering her scattered papers, catching glimpses of her artwork—dark sketches of bridges and stars and things I can't quite make out. "Want to tell me what triggered this?"

      She shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut. Her phone buzzes again, and she jumps like she's been shocked.

      Without asking, I reach for the phone. She doesn't stop me.

      The screen shows fifteen missed calls from the same number. No name, just digits.

      "Who keeps calling you?"

      "No one." Another gasping breath. "It's nothing. I'm nothing. I'm—" She cuts off, hands clawing at her chest like she's trying to physically pull air into her lungs.

      "Hey, look at me." I wait until she does. "Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this."

      I demonstrate, exaggerating the movements. After a moment, she tries to copy me. Her breath hitches, but she keeps trying.

      I watch her hands—they're gripping her sleeves so tight her knuckles are white, like she's physically holding herself together. There's charcoal smeared across her fingers, black against pale skin.

      Her notebook pages surround us. Looking closer now, I see they're not just random drawings. Each one shows the same scene from different angles—a bridge, water, stars. Some are rough sketches, others detailed enough to see individual ripples in the water. In one, the stars are so precisely placed they must be constellations.

      All of them are dated.

      All of them show someone standing on the edge.

      "You're looking at my art," she says between carefully measured breaths.

      "You're good."

      "I'm obsessed. There's a difference." She reaches for one of the pages but stops when her hand shakes too badly. "Drawing helps. When things get... when I can't..."

      "When breathing feels like drowning?"

      Her eyes snap to mine, recognition flickering in their depths. "You remember that?"

      I study her face in the dim library light. There are shadows under her eyes I never noticed before, tension lines around her mouth that make her look older than she is. Her usual constellation of freckles stands out against skin that's too pale, like she hasn't slept in days.

      How long has she been falling apart while pretending to hold me together?

      "Hard to forget your own words being quoted back to you."

      She looks away, focusing on another breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Her phone buzzes again, and she flinches so hard she almost loses her rhythm.

      "Let me help," I say quietly. "The way you helped me."

      "I told you, it's different."

      "Why? Because you're the saviour and I'm the one who needs saving?" The words come out sharper than intended. "Because you've appointed yourself my guardian?"

      Her breath catches. "Stop."

      "You're not the only one who can observe people, Riley. Not the only one who sees things." I pick up another drawing—this one shows a figure reaching out while another falls. "You're running from something. Have been since before you met me. And whatever it is, whoever keeps calling—it's catching up."

      Slowly, her gasps even out. The wild look in her eyes fades.

      "Better?"

      She nods, but doesn't speak.

      "Want to talk about it?"

      "No." The response is immediate.

      "Rule number three," I say again.

      "That rule was for you, not me."

      "You said they'd be mutual." I settle beside her. "You made me scream in a quarry. Least you can do is tell me why you're having a panic attack in the Ancient History section."

      She's quiet for so long I think she won't answer.

      "It's the anniversary."

      "Of what?"

      She shakes her head, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. Over her scars.

      "Riley."

      "I can't." Her voice cracks. "Please don't make me."

      The phone buzzes again. This time, I answer it before she can stop me.

      "Riley?" A male voice demands. "Riley, I know you're there. You can't keep ignoring—"

      I hang up.

      Riley stares at me, face pale. "You shouldn't have done that."

      "Who was it?"

      "No one."

      "Riley."

      "I said no one!" She tries to stand, but her legs are shaking too badly. "Just leave me alone, Ethan. Please."

      I help her up, steadying her when she sways. "The same way you left me alone on that bridge?"

      It's a low blow, and I know it. Her face crumples.

      "That was different."

      "Why?"

      "Because you needed help!"

      "And you don't?"

      She pulls away from me, grabbing her notebook. Papers scatter again, but she doesn't seem to notice. "I'm not the one who was going to jump."

      "Weren't you?"

      She freezes.

      My words hit her like physical blows, each question making her flinch. I should stop. I know I should stop. But there's a desperate need building in my chest—to understand, to help, to do for her what she's been doing for me.

      "Why were you really on that bridge, Riley?" I step closer. "Why do you know exactly what to say to talk someone down? Why do you have those scars on your wrists?"

      "Stop."

      "Why won't you tell me who keeps calling? Why do you check your phone like you're afraid of what you'll see? Why—"

      "Because I survived!" The words explode out of her. "Because I was standing on a different bridge two years ago, and someone talked me down, and now I have to live with that! With being here when they're not! With answering the phone and checking my messages and pretending everything's okay when nothing will ever be okay again!"

      Her breath is coming in gasps again. I reach for her, but she backs away.

      "Riley—"

      "No." She's crying now, tears cutting tracks through the charcoal smudges on her cheeks. "You don't get to fix me, Ethan. That's not how this works. I'm supposed to fix you."

      "Maybe we could fix each other."

      She laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. "I'm not fixable."

      Before I can respond, she turns and runs. Leaving me surrounded by torn pages and unanswered questions.

      I gather all the drawings, sliding them carefully into the notebook she left behind. Each page tells a story—not just of that night on the bridge, but of everything that came before. Of whatever drove her to become this person who saves others because she couldn't save herself.

      Or someone else.

      I think about the unknown caller, about the anniversary she mentioned, about the way she talks about stars like they're the only constant in a universe full of loss.

      My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Riley.

      Riley: I'm sorry. Some stories aren't meant to be shared. Some stars burn out before anyone can save them.

      I stare at the message, at the way she always comes back to stars, even now. Even breaking.

      Maybe especially when breaking.

      I pick up one of the scattered drawings. It shows a bridge at night, stars reflecting in dark water below. But looking closer, I notice something else—two figures on the bridge. One standing on the edge, one reaching out.

      Just like the night we met.

      Except this drawing is dated from two years ago.

      I stare at the date, then at the direction Riley ran. Think about her scars, her panic attacks, her obsession with saving me.

      And I'm starting to think that maybe she needs saving as much as I do.

      I just don't know from what.