"Are we… are we really just going to ignore her? We aren't going to help at all?"
Margaret's voice was small, barely rising above the hum of the clinic's air conditioning.
She sat upright on the edge of the stiff clinic bed, her fingers twisting the hem of her hospital gown.
Her gaze was glued to the cracked screen of Wyne's phone, watching the aftermath of Trizha's digital suicide.
Finally, she looked up, her eyes wide with a heavy, gnawing concern as she waited for a response.
Wyne didn't look up immediately.
She continued to stare at the phone with a clinical intensity, her face an unreadable mask of intrigue that lacked any warmth.
"Of course not," Wyne replied, her tone flat and final. "Why would we ever do that?"
"She hurt us, Wyne. I know she did, in more ways than one," Margaret argued, her voice trembling slightly. "But look at her. Right now, in this moment, she's the one who is truly suffering."
"And whose fault is that?" Wyne let out a sharp, cynical breath. "That's called consequences, Margaret. Or karma. Or maybe just gravity catching up to someone who thought they could fly forever. I don't really know, and frankly, I don't care."
"And yet," Margaret countered, leaning in closer, "you don't feel 'right' watching her rage out like that. I can see it in your eyes. You're watching it because you can't look away from the wreck."
Wyne went silent for a beat, her jaw tightening.
"...Yeah. Maybe. But that isn't our business anymore. She made her choices, she burned her bridges, and now she's on her own. She wanted the spotlight; now she has to deal with the heat."
"If she is truly alone," Margaret whispered, her gaze drifting toward the darkened window of the clinic, "there's a good chance she will just randomly trip over a puddle of water and die on the spot. No one would even be there to help her up."
Wyne snapped her head toward Margaret, her brow furrowing in genuine annoyance at the sudden, jagged intrusion of Margaret's dark humor.
"You know what else is random?" Wyne asked, her voice sharp. "The thing you just said right now. Where do you even get that from?"
Margaret's eyes widened, and a visible wave of uneasiness washed over her.
The small spark of spirit she had shown vanished instantly.
She looked away, her shoulders slumping as she descended into a visible, crushing state of depression.
"Sorry…" Margaret muttered, her voice muffled as she stared at her own feet.
The annoyance in Wyne's expression evaporated the second she saw the shift in the atmosphere.
The weight of Margaret's sudden despondency was palpable, filling the small space between the beds.
Concern, deeper and more visceral than anything she had felt for Trizha, flooded Wyne's face.
She leaned forward, extending her arm to place a firm, grounding hand on Margaret's shoulder.
"Hey… since when did you become so depressed after saying something dark?" Wyne asked softly. "You usually just drop those lines and move on. You don't usually… do this."
"I know," Margaret admitted, her voice thick. "I usually just shrug it off. But I feel so uneasy lately, after… what Trizha did to me. To us. And now, I feel down whenever someone reminds me of how weird my habits are. It makes me feel like I'm broken."
Wyne let out a small, huffed laugh, trying to break the tension. "Now you're talking too much, too. Look at you, giving me a whole paragraph."
"I mean, it's just us in this clinic," Margaret said, a faint, sad smile touching her lips. "And besides, you aren't like me. I'm the one who stays silent all the time when no one is talking to me. I'm the one people forget is even in the room."
Wyne's expression softened even more.
She leaned back slightly but didn't pull her hand away.
Instead, she began to instinctively caress Margaret's hair, her touch gentle and rhythmic.
She watched Margaret's face closely, observing the way the light caught the sadness in her eyes.
"You aren't exactly a quiet girl, are you?" Wyne noted, her voice a soothing murmur. "It's actually fresh, seeing you finally talking back-to-back with me like this. No masks, no scripts."
Margaret smirked, letting out a few genuine, airy chuckles that seemed to lift some of the gloom from her chest.
"And you aren't exactly slow-minded either, are you?" Margaret retorted.
Wyne paused, her hand stilling in Margaret's hair. "Hah. You knew?"
"Observation is no joke, Wyne. I've spent my life watching people from the sidelines," Margaret explained, her smirk widening. "In fact, you don't even act slow most of the time. Only when you're cornered. It's all just your defense mechanism, isn't it? A way to keep people from expecting too much."
Wyne's eyes sparked with a playful light.
She suddenly reached out and punched Margaret's arm lightly, the physical contact breaking the last of the somber mood.
She laughed along with Margaret, a bright, clear sound that echoed in the sterile room.
"You know way too much," Wyne joked. "Should I just end your life right now to keep my secrets safe?"
"Like you could even try," Margaret challenged, her eyes dancing.
"Yeah, yeah," Wyne sighed, shaking her head. "You're far too cute to be killed by my hands. I'd never get the stains out of my clothes anyway."
Both of them laughed together, leaning toward one another until their shoulders touched.
Their voices intertwined like fingers, creating a momentary sanctuary of friendship within the cold clinic walls.
It felt better this way—without Trizha there to suck all the oxygen out of the room, without her constant need to take the spotlight or act like the undisputed leader.
For a brief moment, they were just two girls, equal and honest.
But as the laughter died down, a cold realization settled over them.
It felt wrong, too.
The silence that followed was heavy with the ghost of the girl they had left behind.
They were incomplete, a tripod with a leg missing, no matter how much that leg had hurt them.
Margaret turned back to Wyne, her mood steadier now, though the curiosity remained.
"Also… Trizha said something specific in that live stream, didn't she?" Margaret asked.
Wyne tilted her head, her hand falling back to her side. "Said what, exactly? She said a lot of crazy things."
"The part where she blamed the comment section," Margaret clarified. "She blamed the audience for something they didn't even do. She said it was their fault her friends were gone. What was that about? Why would she say that?"
Wyne looked at Margaret, one eyebrow raised as she contemplated the question. A thoughtful, distant look emerged on her face.
She slowly leaned back against the hard plastic chair, tilting her head toward the ceiling.
She watched the flickering fluorescent light above, her voice dropping into a softer, more imaginative tone as she tried to piece together the shattered psychology of their former friend.
"I'm not sure if what I'm about to say is accurate, or if I'm even right," Wyne began, her words slow and deliberate. "But it's a pattern I've seen before. It's a tragedy of her own making."
.
.
.
"...She blamed them—the viewers, the fans, the entire audience—all because she genuinely believes they are the reason she is trapped on that 'stage' right now. She thinks they forced her to be the person she became."
Wyne exhaled a long, shaky breath, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
Margaret stayed silent, absorbing the weight of Wyne's analysis.
The clinic felt colder now, the reality of Trizha's isolation finally sinking in.