The next day I was discharged from the hospital, with a warning to avoid any strenuous physical activity that may heighten my concussion, and not to pick up anything heavy that might put strain on my wrist.

I wasn’t allowed to watch a screen, wasn’t allowed to walk too much, wasn’t allowed to laugh or shout excessively. Pasically, I couldn’t do anything. I’d have to sit in bed for the next few weeks until I can get better.

Part of me was concerned about what my friends would think, as they hadn’t heard from me since I got admitted to the hospital and I couldn’t text them to let me know I was okay, but mum reassured me she would let their parents know.

I was laying on my bed above the covers, staring at the single crack ran across the ceiling. My hands where resting against my stomach and my legs where crossed at the ankle.

The door creaked open, and I looked over to see my dad standing politely at the door.

“Can I come in?” He asked gently.

“Sure,” I sighed.

I swallowed uncomfortably as dad looked around my bedroom, seemingly wanting to say something but thinking the better of it. The room was a mess, mostly from having left clothes on the floor and not having the energy or willpower to clean it up.

He tiptoed around the mess, before sitting carefully at the edge of the bed, cautious not to make to much or a rustle or any movement that might injure me more.

Looking across my face sympathetically, he began to speak. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

“Darling you’re looking everywhere but here,” he said with a slight chuckle, gesturing to his eyes. “I want you to be honest, remember?”

“Just bored and tired,” I huffed halfheartedly.

“I’m sure you are. Is there anything I can do?”

I ignored the question, instead asking what had been weighing on my mind all morning, my voice sounding more forceful than I’d anticipated. “When can I go back to school?”

Dad frowned, his usually cheerful smile pulling down at the corner of his mouth. “Once you get better,” he said softly, placing his hand tenderly on my shoulder.

“And when will that be?”

“It depends, sweetheart.”

“What does it depend on?” I asked, my patience slowly becoming thinner.

“Well it can take anywhere between two weeks to several months, depending on your bodies recovery time and how much you rest up.” He raised an eyebrow, as though non verbally telling me I should stay calm and relaxed. “Why do you want to go back to school so soon anyways?”

“I need to make sure my friends are okay.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.”

“I need to see them though.”

Dad sighed, dropping his hand from my shoulder and standing up. He loomed over me, his arms crossed in growing frustration. “I understand your concerns sweets, but we spoke about this yesterday.”

“I know, I-”

“Zoey,” he said, promptly shutting me up. “I know you’re concerned, and I know you love your friends very much, but you will be taking at least the next two weeks off to make sure you have time to heal.” At that he left, leaving me with my own thoughts.

The warm air began to feel cold, goosebumps popping up like meerkats on a field. The air that tasted sweet, with the comforting flicker of a strawberry candle beside me began to tang sourly, my mouth watering as it tried to banish the sensations.

My whole body was tingly, but not in a panic attack way. I was sad. So immensely sad. In fact, I was more sad that I had been for a long fricken time.

Usually I had people to talk to, movies to watch, or places to walk. Now, I was trapped in this jail of a bedroom, my head glued to a flat pillow and mattress springs digging into the curve my spine.

I lay there for a long time (about ten minutes, despite it feeling like three hours), before turning my head to the bedside table and seeing the tempting diamond laying beside me: the cellular device.

The screen buzzed to life, the blue tint lighting up the dark air beside it. Then it buzzed again. And again. And again.

I couldn’t help myself, and without even thinking it through, I was sitting up with my phone in my hand.

Usually, I wasn’t the type of person to break rules or disobey what my parents wanted, let alone what literal doctor had told me, but today I just couldn’t help it. Someone was clearly texting me, and I wouldn’t want them to panic.

I clicked it open, pressed my fingertip against the screen, and studied the plethora of texts coming from the Four Peas In A Pod group chat.

Tommy
Yo is everyone okay?

Chloe
I think so
I’m not worried abt me tho

Jackson
Yeah has anyone heard from Zo?
Cuz I haven’t

Tommy
No

Chloe
Not yet
Do u think she’s okay?

Tommy
God I hope so

Jackson
I dont even believe in God
But I did pray

Chloe
I do believe in God
And I prayed

Jackson
Good
We need all the prayers

Tommy
@Zoey
Pls answer
I’m getting scared

Chloe
My mum her mum texted her
She said she's fine
But I still want to hear from her

Tommy
Parents lie all the time
They could have just said that
To make us feel better

Jackson
Yeah she could be like in a coma
Bleeding out
In surgery
Maybe they just don't want us to panic

You
You guys are so dramatic <3
I’m fine

Chloe
OH THANK FUCKING GOD

Jackson
We where scared for u
I thought u would be like knocked out
What did the doc say?

You
I have like a grade 3 concussion
And idk some broken stuff
I’m more worried abt u guys thorough

Tommy
WHY!?
Ur the one who got bashed

Chloe
Yeah… there was lots of blood

You
Yeah but
It effects u guys more

Chloe
How?

You
Cuz… y’know…
Ur old bullies and stuff

Chloe
Oh

You
And Tommy you fought too
How r u feeling

Tommy
Heroic
Soz lol
This aint the time for jokes is it?

Jackson
CoPiNg MeChAnIsImS

Chloe
We all need some humour
Seriously tho Zo

You
Yeah I’m fine
Can’t come to school for like
2 weeks

Tommy
Luckyyy!!
Wish I was u
Well not literally
But mum won’t let me take the day off
Even if I tell her I’m traumatized

Chloe
Well it was a bit scary

Tommy
Exactly

You
I want to be there though
For u guys

Jackson
We’ll be fine, Zoey

I bit my lip, my fingers hovering over the typing pad. Clearly Tommy was using humour as a coming mechanism, Chloe was trying her hardest to both not downplay the situation but also not think about it, and Jackson just wanted everyone to be okay.

The thing is, my friends always knew that I cared deeply about them, but I’m not sure they knew to what extent. Would they think I was strange for being so overprotective about them? Would they get upset if I told them my parents knew about their struggles? Should I even tell them at all?

My heart palpitated, as though begging for me to stop questioning. My hands where slick with a stressed sweat, and I had to grip the phone tightly to prevent it slipping from my shaking fingers.

You
I just get worried
That’s all

Chloe
Gurl we know
But u need to trust we can handle ourselves

You
But what if something happens
I can’t help

Jackson
We’ll still have eachother

Tommy
I’m a big boy
I can handle myself

You
What if you freak out?

Tommy
Wdym?

And the cat was out of the bag. Obviously Tommy knew that I helped him through panic attacks, Jackson knew he could come to his house when his dad was abusing him, and Chloe knew I would never question her food intake or eating habits.

What they didn’t know, however, was how much I really feared for their safety. I was terrified that Jackson would hurt himself really bad, or Chloe would stop eating for too long, or Tommy would get so caught up in his own head that he wouldn’t be able to function.

You
Idk

Chloe
Come on Zoey
You can talk to us

Jackson
Yeah your always there for us
You can talk to us too yknow

Tommy
Spit it out
We love you and support you buddy

Chloe
Just imagine we’re there holding your hand

My breathing was erratic, but not in a way where I would loose control. We always knew that everyone in the group had their own struggles. I think we probably always had our own suspicions about each other. What I didn’t know, however, was if everyone was always as on edge as I was. It was nerve wracking, the idea of telling my friends the self-diagnostics, admitting that my parents knew everything, and telling them the true extent of my worries…

Yet it had to be done.