She was standing on the edge of adulthood, mapping out essays, trips, and plans that now exist only in the memories of those who loved her. In the quiet corridors of her university, friends still see her in familiar corners: the library desk she favored, the path she walked back from late seminars, the smile she offered without thinking. Her death, ruled non-suspicious, offers no real comfort, only a stark finality that leaves every room she once entered feeling slightly hollow.

For her family, time has split into a before and an after. As they wait for the inquest to resume, they move through days filled with small, piercing reminders—a half-packed bag, unread messages, books left open mid-page. Around them, a wider conversation grows about how easily private pain can hide behind capable faces, and how urgently young people need spaces where it is safe to say, “I’m not okay,” and truly be heard.