She’s drowning in the dark, but her eyes are closed like she’s sleeping. Curly hair wild like a storm that never breaks, a thin net over her face, like someone stitched her silence shut. Her lips won’t move, but I swear they’re screaming. Head thrown back, neck stretched tight, like she’s begging the sky for air while the shadows keep pulling her down. The red behind her is blood or fire, I don’t know which. Maybe both. It swallows her shoulders, licks at her skin, but she still looks soft, too soft for all this pain. I want to reach in and rip that net off, tell her "breathe, baby, breathe," but my hands only touch cold glass. She’s trapped between beauty and breaking, between light and the weight of everything. Help. She needs help. And maybe, so do I.