The shift is subtle.
No dramatic outbursts.
No slammed doors.
Just silence.
Zara stops eating at the table with us.
Stops sitting on the couch during movie nights.
Stops painting.
The studio downstairs goes dark.
At first, I think it’s just teenage mood swings.
Then I find the sketchbook.
It’s on her desk, half-hidden under a sweatshirt.
I don’t open it to snoop. I open it because the edges are torn and I’m worried.
The drawings aren’t art.
They’re lines.
Jagged, frantic lines scratched into paper until it almost rips.
Page after page.
Marcus sees my face when I come into the living room.
“What’s wrong?”
I hand him the sketchbook.
He flips through it slowly.
“She hasn’t painted in two weeks.”
“I know.”
“She’s spiraling.”
“I know.”
We don’t panic.
We don’t react imm
