She shows up on his campus exactly one week after he tells her, hushed despite the fact that no one's around and they're on a phone call, that he's been thinking about killing himself. That he doesn't have a particular plan but it's a near constant thought of his, that some days it's all he can think about. That he hasn't been eating or sleeping, not because he can't see the point or is trying to speed up the process of his body's decay or anything as morbid as her sharp intake of breath warns him she's expecting, but because he just... can't. That he's never really hungry but is often so nauseous that he thinks he'll throw up, though there's often nothing in his stomach; that he's always so tired, but can't seem to relax or fall asleep. That no matter what he does, he regrets it immediately afterwards. He'd then apologized for telling her that. It was cruel of him, with her so many states away, unable to do anything.

She'd kept him on the call until it was so late in his time zone that it was also late in hers, telling him stories of their relationship from her side of the friendship, the phone call. She'd told him that she missed running with him, even though they'd only started because this wasn't first time they'd had this kind of discussion, because he'd once been so out of his mind in another fit self-loathing that he'd gone on a night run to avoid another bout of insomnia. Because he'd made it so far from his house that he'd thrown up on the side of the road and had had to call her, a whimpering mess, to ask if she would come pick him up.

He doesn't think it a very flattering moment, but she whispered to him, like it was a secret for just the two of them, that she'd been so happy that he'd called her. That he'd always been the person she wanted to go to for comfort, for help, but that she hadn't known if he felt the same. That she'd known then, not for the first time but more than ever, that he was her best friend—and she was his. She'd told him she loved him then she'd led him through several breathing techniques, trying to curb the panic attack that had crept up on him at those words.

"Why?," he'd asked, the guilt obvious in his voice. He'd tried to find the words to explain how pointless that love was—to find a way to convince her the burden his entire mess wasn't worth her bearing—but all he could think to say was, "I haven't even been running, recently." He hadn't known what that was supposed to mean then and still doesn't really, but the thought had stuck with him since her story. He didn't feel much like the energetic teenager she'd befriended, who'd dreamed of track scholarships and an aerospace engineering major, even though he can easily trace that kid's trajectory downwards to the fall from grace he's experiencing now.

"You would run if you needed to," she'd responded, simply. It had taken him a moment to understand, but when he finally did, he'd shuddered. Because she was right. Because he would have run any distance she needed him to if it would have helped her, because he would have crawled, biked, driven, taken five connecting flights to get to her campus in the middle of the school year if she needed help. Because she'd known that about him, but he hadn't believed that about her.

They'd both ended up sobbing, but he definitely believes her now. When he leaves Physics on Friday, he almost doesn't notice her. Actually, he almost forgets to notice her, and it's weird the way that happens: he scans the courtyard in front of him, sees her usual orange coat, the one he can recognize from a good half block away, and it's so achingly familiar that he almost doesn't realize it's technically out of place. She laughs as she watches him do a double-take, but then she's running towards him as he stands there dumbly.

Her hugs are just as warm and painfully tight as he remembers, her fingers digging into his sides, but this time, when he can finally get his arms to work, he wraps them around her just as securely. Her long, curly hair is damp where he's curled himself down into the crook of her neck, and he realizes it's because he's crying. When he pulls away to get a better look at her face, to make sure she's really there, he sees she's crying too, but she's smiling. Her eyes are red, and she's so pale in the cold of the winter that the streaks of her tears on her cheeks glisten despite the meager sunlight—but she looks so happy.

The joy is what makes him really break down. He feels his face crumple, and he pulls her back into another hug to hide his weeping, but he knows she noticed. The strange thing is that, for the first time in a long time, he's also happy. More than that—he's ecstatic. He feels so happy that he can't do anything but stand there, wrapped around her, while she rubs a firm, soothing hand up and down his back.

When his breathing finally stops hiccuping and evens to a normal pace, he lets her walk him back to his dorm. Her gloved hand is interlocked with his, and they've both been shoved into her jacket pocket, allegedly to make sure he doesn't lose any fingers to hypothermia. Still, he remembers her telling him once how grounding she found physical contact with her friends. Perhaps horribly, it pleases him to know he's not the only one overwhelmed by this turn of events.

They settle on his bed when they get to his room after taking out all of his blankets to make a giant, cozy pile on his bed. She doesn't try to talk to him about why she's here, and he doesn't ask yet, even though he kind of wants to know what she'd say. Instead, they order in pizza and wings, and she puts The Princess Bride on because she knows it's his favorite. It plays on his computer because hers died after the third connecting flight.

He does ask eventually—why?

"I wanted to see you," she responds. "I needed to know you were still... here. Plus, I can't give you hugs through a screen." Neither of them mentions how her voice chokes on the word "here," but he does squeeze her hand at her obvious attempt to lighten the mood a little.

She hadn't looked at him at that admission, but she turns to face him now. "I also wanted you to see me. I mean, I want you to see a therapist too, but I really needed you to know that I'm here. That I can be here. I'm always here for you, but I will be here, with you, wherever you are, if you need me to be."

She gestures between them. "This? This is a guarantee. You're probably my favorite person in the world, and that's not going to change any time soon. Or ever, probably. You would have to, like, kill someone for there to be a less than one-hundred percent chance that I would want to be there for you, and even then, I might still help you hide the body, if whoever it was deserved it."

He huffs out a laugh, but it's a wet sound. He's not sure how he still has enough water left in his body to form tears.

"I'm all in," she tells him, her voice low, "on this. I'll be there when you finally find a boyfriend who isn't awful, or when you get your fancy space robots degree. I'll be there when you get that job at NASA you want—I'm gonna buy you a cake shaped like a rocket-ship. I'll even be there if the non-terrible boyfriend breaks up with you, or if you decide to totally change majors and go into, like, geology or something.

"Maybe it's greedy, but I want to be there for it all. Mostly, I want to be there, in it all, with you."