“The stories. The banners. The purple ribbons. Does any of it actually change anything, or is it just… trauma karaoke for a good cause?”

“This card was given to me at an awareness fair ten years ago,” she said. “I kept it in my wallet for nine of them. I never called the number. But just knowing it was there—a tiny purple lifeline in a sea of gray—it kept me from stepping off the curb on bad days. Awareness campaigns aren’t for the people on stage, Leo. They’re for the person in the back row who hasn’t said their name yet.”

He hated this part. The part where survivors stood on a stage and became exhibits.

He stared at the words. They looked back, raw and unadorned. No silver letters. No purple ribbon. Just the truth.