Through the gap in the bathroom door, I could see her reflection in the mirror. She stood in front of it wearing an oversized navy-blue T-shirt — one of mine — and light blue checked pajama pants as she lifted the hem of the shirt to examine her scars. She went to touch them, her finger coming within inches of her skin, until she brought her hand back to holding the shirt and pressed her lips together.
I rested on my elbows as her brow furrowed, and she looked at her face in the mirror. She sighed heavily, coming to some unspoken conclusion behind those sad blue eyes as she let the shirt fall over herself and braced her hands against the basin, looking down.
I got out of bed, adjusting the waistband of my sweatpants as I rounded the bottom of the bed and neared the door. The lightwas bright against my pupils as I half squinted and knocked lightly.
Several seconds passed before she pulled the door all the way open and offered me a small, guilt-ridden smile.
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” I lied, brushing a hand over my hair as I forced back a yawn. “You okay?”
Great question, dumbass.
“Mhm.” It might’ve been believable if her voice hadn’t gone up an octave.
My eyebrow lifted automatically while my eyes grew accustomed to the light. I leaned against the doorframe. “Are you comin’ back to bed?”
“In a minute.” Her smile wavered again.
I dropped my head against the frame. “Lily—”
“I won’t be long, I promise. Go back to bed.” She stepped closer, lifting her hand towards my face.
In my half asleep, but trying to be a fully awake and supportive boyfriend state, I expected her to caress my cheek. It would have been the first time she reached out physically in a week. I missed the feeling of her hands on my skin.
She patted me on the head instead, shared another of her reassuring smiles, and closed the door.
I blinked, processing the interaction.
Grumbling to myself, I went to bed but lay awake, staring at the ceiling in the dark. I washerboyfriend and deserved some kind of explanation.
She needed time and would talk when she was ready…
But we also need to communicate.
I was tired of feeling like I was looking in from the outside, waiting for her to crumble. I knew what she was going through and knew what bottling up trauma could do. I never hadsomeone to talk to about mine until her, so it was my turn to return the favor.
So long as I didn’t come across as a pushy dickhead.
Lily was in the bathroom for several minutes before quietly entering the room again. Her bed socks scuffed the carpet as she went. She barely jostled the mattress when she climbed in and tucked herself beneath the covers. I wasn’t sure she was aware I was awake. She remained on her side with her back to me.
The gap between us felt too far.
I inhaled sharply through my nose and flicked on the lamp beside me. “Yeah, we’re not doin’ that.”
She rolled over, blankets pulled up to her chin as she looked at me with confused, wide eyes. “Doing what?”
“You were worried at one point about what’s going on in my head, so now it’s my turn.” I faced her, resting on my side, and spoke a little softer. “Talk to me.”
“I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“Okay, so what’s wrong?”
Lily sat up slowly, crossing her legs beneath the sheets as she turned to face me. A strand of hair fell from her braid as she glanced down at her hands in her lap. “There’s nothing to talk about—I mean, there is, but I can’t explain it…”
I was fighting every urge in my body wanting to reach out and touch her, to comfort her. Maybe she didn’t want that yet.
“I feel like I’m broken…” she said.
