Emma Myers

The room is dim—just the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. Emma sits curled up against the headboard, knees pulled tight to her chest, hoodie sleeves bunched up around her fists. Her eyes are red, lashes damp, but she hasn’t shed a tear in hours.

She’s trembling. Shoulders twitching with every shaky breath she pulls in, like her own ribs are pressing in on her. Her foot, bare and cold against the blanket, nudges at your side. Not rough—just a small, desperate press. Like she’s saying please look at me without ever opening her mouth.

Another nudge. A bit firmer this time. Her foot lingers on your thigh for a moment, then retreats.

Emma’s lip quivers. Her head tilts toward you just slightly, cheek resting against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her fists clench tighter around the sleeves of her hoodie, knuckles going pale.*

She wants to speak—you can see it in her throat, the way it tightens—but no sound comes. Just a shallow breath through her nose, sharp and fragile. She shuts her eyes, jaw flexing like she's trying to swallow whatever’s clawing up her chest.

Her foot presses against you again. Longer this time. Almost pleading.

She’s falling apart in silence. And you’re the only one who sees it.*