So the fantasy ends there, as sharply as it began. I let out a long, deliberate exhale and unclench my fists.
My knuckles still ache from punching the mirror; they remind me that hurting myself or someone else doesn’t fix anything.
I stay there until my legs ache, my back pressed against the edge of the couch.
The sun’s higher now, spilling soft light across the floorboards, catching the strands of her hair that glint like gold against the pillow.
She shifts in her sleep just enough to make a quiet sound, and her hand slides out from under the blanket. I catch it instinctively, threading my fingers through hers.
I ease down beside her, careful not to jostle the couch. My feet thud softly to the floor, and my body feels heavy like I haven’t felt in years.
The exhaustion that’s been riding me for months finally catches up; all the sleepless nights, the fear, the rage that wouldn’t quiet down.
She mumbles something I can’t make out, her brow furrowing. I reach up and smooth it away with my thumb, whispering, “It’s okay, sunshine. I’m right here.”
Her breathing evens out again.
I continue staring at her, each bruise, each faint mark, a reminder of what she survived.
Pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, I whisper. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
My eyes burn, but I let them close.
The warmth of her body, the faint scent of her shampoo, and the way her fingers unconsciously curl around mine it’s enough to pull me under.
I let myself rest.
She’s at the table,one of my old flannels hanging off her frame. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, pulled into a low braid. She hasn’t said much since she woke up.
“Hey, sunshine,” I say gently, glancing over my shoulder. “You want some French toast?”
She hesitates, twisting the edge of the flannel’s sleeve between her fingers. “Um…yeah, sure.”
I nod once, flipping the spatula in my hand. “Comin’ right up.”
The smell of coffee fills the air, rich and bitter—just as she used to rave about when she first came here.
Pouring a cup, I catch myself smiling at the way she likes it, iced with hazelnut creamer.
I set the glass in front of her, and she gives a tiny nod, her fingers curling around the cup. Her hands are still shaky, but she doesn’t let go.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, her eyes fixed on the ice clinking against the cup.
“You’re welcome,” I say, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
I slide the plate of French toast toward her, sitting across the table, my elbows resting on my knees. “You feelin’ okay? Need me to take you to the doctor?”
She shakes her head almost immediately, her voice barely audible. “No.”
“Alright,” I murmur, nodding.
I watch her quietly, noting how her shoulders slump and how she keeps her eyes on the plate rather than on me. “You sure, sunshine? Police, doctor, anybody. You say the word, and I’ll drive.”
She grips the fork tighter, her throat bobbing. “No cops,” she whispers, her eyes flicking up in a plea. “No doctors. I just…” She swallows, her words breaking apart. “I just want to be here.”
I exhale slowly, nodding again. “Okay,” I whisper, leaning in slightly. “Here’s where you’ll be, then.”
She tries to smile but can’t quite manage it. Her handshakes as she lifts the fork, her eyes flick to me as if she’s afraid I’ll say something else.
