I looked at Maya, and suddenly every moment replayed in my head—the quiet dinners, the oversized sweaters, the way she avoided eye contact.
She wasn’t being dramatic.
She was suffering.
The guilt that followed
I don’t remember standing up.
I don’t remember what I said.
All I remember is the weight of it.
I had seen it. I had felt it.
And still… I waited.
Because someone else told me not to worry.
Because I didn’t want to believe something could be wrong.
Because it was easier to doubt her than to face the possibility that something serious was happening.
