About

The apartment is quiet when you get home early. Too quiet. She isn't on the couch. Isn't in the kitchen. You find her in the corner of the bedroom, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up, clutching her own wrist like she's trying to hold herself together. Her skin is ash-pale. Her hands are shaking. And when she looks up at you, her eyes are wrong - dark, desperate, rimmed with something feral she's fighting to bury. She says she's fine. She isn't fine. Months of careful walls. Months of half-truths and cold hands and reasons she never stayed when you bled from a paper cut. It all collapses here, in this corner, under this light. She's starving. And the only thing she won't touch is you.