“Not interested in watching actual baking?” I’m trying for lighthearted teasing, but the question sounds strained, even to my ears.

Scarlett’s body goes stiff at the sound of my voice. She clearly wasn’t expecting me, but she doesn’t make a move to lift herself from the couch or even turn in my direction. “I finished it. The bald guy won.”

“When did you finish?”

“What time is it?”

I check my watch. “Five thirty.”

She groans and turns her face so it’s buried in a throw pillow. “Three and a half hours ago.”

I don’t have a lot of experience dealing with people who are in a depressive episode, but my best guess is that if I act alarmed or shame her in any way, she’ll only sink deeper into whatever mood she’s in. So I simply walk around the couch and tap her feet in a signal for her to move them over. She does, and I sit far enough away so I’m not touching her.

“What’s going on, beautiful?” The nickname slips out, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She just curls her legs into her chest and stares at the television screen.

“Trina told me to take a break, so I did. But…” She trails off and swallows audibly. Her lips are cracked, and her eyes are half-closed. I consider sitting on my hands so as not to touch her, but I clasp them in my lap instead while I wait for her to continue.

“I don’t know what to do with myself when I’m not writing,” she finally says. Her voice cracks, and my heart cracks wide open with it. She draws in a shaky breath but doesn’t cry.

“What did you do after you quit?” If I can find out what has been working for her, I can help her replicate it, surely.

She huffs a laugh. “Traveled. And…this, mostly. For about a year until Trina dragged me to see a therapist. And a psychiatrist. Then…” She trails off again, then shakes her head slightly as if she’s shaking off a memory. “Well, I never stopped writing. Not really. It was never writing that was the problem.”