She had pushed her bed against the wall in an attempt to give the room more floorspace. It was probably the best way to do it, but she hadn't really thought it through. It was compulsive. Now, she lay under the coverlet as close to the wall as possible, her shoulders, butt, and thighs pressing against the cool, whitewashed surface, face buried in a pillow. She wasn't asleep, but when I spoke her name she didn't reply, so I said it twice. Maybe she had been crying, but when she looked up, her face gave no such indication, though she looked tired for someone who had wrapped herself in a blanket for most of the day. I suspect she wasn't capable of tears, that they had been stolen from her eyes once puberty hit, and she never cared enough to get them back.
I walk to her, and turn on the lamp beside the bed. I ask her how long she's been there. Not even an hour, she lies, I'm really tired and I'm trying to get some sleep. I tell her I think we should talk about this, can I make her some tea? No, she's tired. I'm your friend, it's alright, I want to help you. No, she's about to fall asleep. In the morning, it's not important, it can wait. Alright, I say, it is important, but still, it can wait.
After turning off the light, I go for the door. As it closes, I hear one low sob. Dry, sad and faint but she doesn't need me, so I walk away.