The next morning, Yasmine awoke to the sound of chirping birds outside her window, their song quiet but persistent. The soft light of the early sun filtered through the tiny gap in the blinds, casting a faint glow across the room. It felt like a fragile promise, a silent declaration that better days were ahead. But it also felt like a lie. The heaviness of the past few weeks, of the overwhelming weight she'd carried, still lingered in her chest. It wasn't suffocating her anymore, but it was there—an ever-present ache in the pit of her stomach, a constant reminder of what she had been through.

Her eyes, bloodshot from restless nights of staring into the darkness, met her reflection in the mirror. She looked the same. Her hair was tangled, her skin pale and drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes that wouldn't fade. But something inside her had shifted—just a little. It wasn't much, and it certainly didn't make her feel any less broken. But it was enough to make her feel something she hadn't allowed herself to feel in months: hope.

It was a terrifying feeling, if she was being honest. Hope. It was fragile, like a thread hanging over a deep, empty void. One wrong move, and it could snap. Yasmine wasn't sure she was strong enough to hold on to it, but she also knew she couldn't keep living in the suffocating darkness. She had been there for far too long.

The first step toward something better had certainly not been the easiest. The words Marie had said to her last night still echoed in her mind, soft but firm. You don't have to fix everything... you just need to take the first step. Marie had told her that. With such certainty, with such trust. And for a moment, Yasmine had believed it—had believed in herself, in the possibility of healing. But as the night had stretched on, doubts began to creep in. Could she really do this? Could she actually take that first step and not fall right back into the abyss?

She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the cold bite of the room seep into her skin. The uncertainty gnawed at her, eating away at whatever strength she had managed to gather. She knew the road ahead wouldn't be smooth. There would be days when the weight of it all would drag her down, days when she would want to give up, days when she would wonder if it was even worth it to keep fighting.

But Marie's voice stayed with her. I'm here, Yasmine. Always.

Yasmine closed her eyes, letting those words settle in her mind. She wasn't alone. Not anymore. The thought should have been comforting, but it wasn't. It was a strange, foreign concept to her now—being part of something, being seen, being cared for. It felt like a dream, too fragile to touch. She wanted to believe it, wanted to reach out for it, but the fear of shattering it, of feeling weak or vulnerable, held her back. She wasn't sure if she could take the risk of letting anyone see how broken she was.

With a slow, shaky breath, she forced herself to stand, her feet feeling like lead as she stepped out of bed. The floorboards creaked under her weight, and she winced at the noise, as if the very sound of her movement was a betrayal. She wasn't supposed to be this weak, this fragile. She wasn't supposed to be in need of anything.

But she was. And it was terrifying.

Her hand hovered over her phone, but she hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on her chest. She hadn't spoken to Marie since their confrontation the night before. She knew Marie was waiting, hoping that Yasmine would reach out, but Yasmine wasn't sure if she was ready to do that. Not yet. She had to do this on her own—didn't she?

She dragged her fingers through her hair, the messy strands sticking to her sweaty palms. She had to stop hiding, stop pretending that everything was fine. The world didn't care about her facade. The people around her didn't care about her cold indifference. It wasn't enough to push them away anymore, and maybe... maybe she didn't want to.

But the guilt... the guilt was like a vice around her chest, squeezing tight. She had pushed Marie away for so long. She had shut herself off from the very person who had always been there for her, and for what? To protect herself? To wallow in her own pain, because it was easier than facing the reality that she couldn't do it all on her own? She wanted to scream, to tear at her own skin for being so foolish.

The guilt was overwhelming, suffocating, but there was something else mixed in—something deeper, something that scared her even more. The fear of being seen. Of letting someone truly understand how far gone she was.

She paced the room, her feet moving faster than her mind. What was she supposed to do? What was the right move? Every decision felt like it could tear her apart. She couldn't go back to the way things were before—she couldn't keep hiding. But the thought of opening up, of showing Marie the rawness inside her, left her breathless. What if she wasn't enough? What if Marie looked at her and saw nothing but a broken mess?

Yasmine clenched her fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. The pain grounded her, forcing her to breathe, forcing her to stop thinking about the worst possible outcome. It wasn't about perfection. It was about trying, and for the first time in a long while, she wanted to try.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she finally sat on the edge of the bed again. Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone, the device heavy in her hands, as if it carried the weight of her entire future. She scrolled through her messages, pausing on the last text from Marie. The words, I'm here, danced before her eyes, and something inside her stirred.

With one final shaky breath, she unlocked the phone and opened the message app. The screen blinked at her, waiting, patient. And then the words came. Slowly, hesitantly, almost as if her fingers didn't belong to her anymore: Marie, I... I'm ready to talk.

The message sat there for a long time, just a few simple words, but they felt like the most significant thing she had ever written. They were an admission of vulnerability, a crack in the armor she had so carefully constructed. She stared at the words, feeling the weight of them pull at her chest.

Her finger hovered over the send button, trembling. Was she ready for this? Was she truly ready to let someone in, to let them see the parts of her she had buried so deep? The silence in the room was deafening, the tension palpable. For a long moment, nothing moved. Everything stood still.

And then, with a deep breath, Yasmine pressed the button.

Her heart skipped a beat. The room seemed to spin for a moment. She quickly dropped her phone onto the bed, as if trying to distance herself from what she had just done, from the decision that might change everything. She felt a rush of panic—what had she done? What if Marie didn't want to talk? What if it was too late?

But there was something else, too. A tiny flicker of hope. It wasn't much. It wasn't enough to erase the fear or the doubt. But it was there. It was real.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Yasmine could breathe.