I fill a week with tests. After completing so many assessments, I think Camila is catching on. Her pleading eyes at the end of each session, despite how they grow endlessly hopeless, are enough to make me want to keep trying. I don't want her to have this label over her head, don't want her to have to deal with such a thing, don't want it to be true. I do everything to try and prove that she hasn't struggled with it her whole life, but it's impossible. No matter what I do, her results make one answer clear. Eventually, I have to come to a conclusion and move on to treatment.

She knows the day has come. I can tell when she doesn't look up when I enter the room. I sink into the cold metal seat opposite her, running my hands along my thighs before crossing my arms on the table. I take a steadying breath. Words failing me, I push the paper detailing her diagnosis across the table. I have never had such trouble in diagnosing anybody before; yet again, Camila is proving just how different she is to the others.

"That's not a clean bill of health by any chance, is it?" She mutters, gaze glued down at her lap. Her lips pull into a taut, quivering grin, and I sigh quietly.

"They're treatable," I offer meekly.

She looks up with fear raging in her eyes. I reach over for her hand—uncuffed, which is something she's slowly getting used to—and she blinks slowly. Her eyes, once reopened, are focused on the paper, moving quickly over the words.

The paper details three concrete disorders—bipolar, borderline personality, and post-traumatic stress—while stating that the diagnoses may not be final, as other underlying diagnoses may have gone unnoticed or unconfirmed. It details, in the words of the American Psychiatric Association, the triad's causes and symptoms, while describing, in my own words, how they seem to present themselves within Camila; in her intrusive memories and nightmares, in her rash and aggressive tendencies, in her incapability to remain still, always bouncing a leg or tapping her fingers; all of it is explained so neatly, so clearly, and yet so devastatingly.

"Told you I'm fucked up." She meets my gaze again. "You won't leave, right? Even though..."

"I'm not leaving you, Camila."

She nods thoughtfully. "So, um, what does it mean? I mean..." Her finger traces over the paper, in search of her next words. "'Personality disorder'. Who does that make me?"

"We can figure that out together," I promise. "Personality disorders can make it a little hazy, but with treatment, I'm sure the true you will become clear. She's there now; she just has to grow a little stronger."

She smiles weakly, but only momentarily. "Treatment."

"Yes, talk therapy like we've been doing, cognitive behavioural therapy, and we can try medication if you'd like."

She squeezes my hand tightly and once again rereads the paper. Her mind is visibly racing as she struggles to process all of this new information. My heart lies heavy in my chest as her brows furrow and her bottom lip juts out just so. Her fingers draw small circles on my palm, tickling the sensitive skin and sending some sort of buzz up my arm. "Can we, um... can we go outside?"

I nod, releasing her hand to stand. She passes me the papers as she steps towards the door and I slip them into my bag. The way she feverously runs her palms over the front of her jumpsuit, as if to free them from grime, does not go unnoticed.

The second we set foot in the courtyard, she takes my hand again and leads me to the grass, gently pushing my willing form to the ground and silently adjusting my position until I'm sitting with my legs crossed. Then, she lowers herself, shuffling around until her head is cradled in my lap, her limbs outstretched. A blush quickly grows on my cheeks, but her eyes fall shut before she can catch sight of it. I turn away in an attempt to control it.

"You're taking this very well—"

She reaches up and clumsily lays her finger across my lips, hushing me. Her eyes flicker open for just a second, and she smiles. "I'm pretending."

A crease forms between my brows. "Pretending what?"

"Pretending I'm normal."

"Camila," I sigh, leaning back onto my hands. My shadow leaves her face, and she frowns and strains her neck back to look at me. I quirk a brow. "There's no such thing as normal. 20% of the American population have a mental illness, and that's just the ones who are brave and lucky enough to be diagnosed. That's one in every five—"

She shushes me again, reaching back for my hands—in turn causing me to sit more upright— and holding my palms against her cheeks. Her skin is warm beneath mine and I blush once more.

"I like you, Jauregui, don't get me wrong, but I don't need numbers. I know I'm not normal—I wouldn't be here if I was—but neither are you." A moment passes, and she must take my silence as a response in itself. "I like you. I think you like me, too, or you wouldn't still be here."

"Of course I—"

"No, I like you in a 'I should've worked in a coffee shop and you'd go there every day to see me even though my coffee would be terrible, and I'd write cheesy pick-up lines on your takeout cup' kind of way."

I swallow my possible response to her comment and look to the courtyard doors straight ahead, jaw clenched tight.

"See?" She sighs, releasing my hands, though I keep them still cradling her face. "If I was normal you'd have kissed me when I said that."

"I can't." I draw shapes on the corners of her jaw. At the feeling of the tense bundles beneath my fingertips, I have no choice but to heed my heart's desires and look down into her woeful eyes. "But... I want to."

She smiles, truly smiles, all toothy and bright. She even giggles as she squirms in my lap. I can't help but smile back, stroking my hands down her cheeks and through her hair. Then, she closes her eyes, entwines her fingers with mine, and hums contently while my mind hurtles through the possible implications of the confession I have made.