The days after that turned into a blur. She still saw him sometimes—from afar. With new girls. Always young. Always starry-eyed. He hadn’t changed.
She had.
At night, she scribbled notes in her new journal. Not letters anymore. Blueprints.
"They don’t see it yet. But they will."
Her parents grew concerned again. She barely left her room. She muttered in her sleep. Her closet was empty, but the space under her bed filled with photos—of Landon, of houses, of unfamiliar girls.
Each girl was a copy of a copy. Same hair. Same laugh. Same hungry need to be seen.
One morning, she heard shouting downstairs. Words like "relapse," and "unwell," and "again."
By nightfall, men in scrubs were at her door.
They called it another episode.
She smiled and went willingly.
The facility was quiet. S
