She wore a hoodie again, even though it was warm outside. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, her eyes rimmed with tired shadows. She looked like a student. Like a girl who maybe didn't sleep well, but who was still functioning. Still alive.
Nobody knew what almost happened.
Except Jasmine.
They didn't talk about it. Not really. Jasmine walked a little closer in the hallways now. Watched her more carefully during lunch. Sometimes slipped protein bars into her bag. Zariah never thanked her out loud, but sometimes she'd take one. That was enough.
In English class, Zariah answered every question perfectly. Her voice didn't shake. Her hands didn't tremble. She smiled once at a joke someone made.
But inside, she was unraveling.
She still wasn't eating—not regularly. And sleep had become a myth. Her cuts were fresh, her thoughts darker. The more she pretended to be okay, the more exhausted she became. She couldn't cry anymore. Even that felt like too much energy.
At lunch, Jasmine leaned in and whispered, "Are you okay today?"
Zariah didn't answer. Just nodded. Lying was easier than explaining the ache in her chest.
That afternoon, a teacher told her, "You've been doing great lately. Whatever you're doing—keep it up."
She smiled.
Later that night, she threw up in the sink from not eating all day and nearly fainted.
She sat on the bathroom floor again, just like before. This time, no pills. No blade. Just the weight. Pressing. Crushing.
But she didn't call Jasmine. She couldn't. Not again. She'd already taken too much.
Instead, she grabbed her sketchbook. Opened to a blank page.
And for the first time in weeks, she drew something that wasn't dark.
It was small. Quiet. Just a hand reaching up from water.
No rescue. No miracle.
Just a hand.
Still reaching.