Didn’t flinch. Didn’t wake. Just breathed.
My chest tightened.
My throat did that thing again, the thing it does right before tears.
Why?
Why did he do this?
Why would he pull me out, carry me here, stay on the floor all night when he could’ve just left?
It hurts.
It hurts to look at him. Because the same hands that hurt me were now the same ones that saved me. The same voice that broke me was the one whispering I was safe.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.
I didn’t know how to feel.
My fingers brushed over the cast. The ache was dull now, but it pulsed every few seconds, like my body was reminding me who put it there.
A small sob slipped out before I could stop it. Quiet. Barely a sound.
A tear fell, hit the blanket, and spread into a tiny dark spot.
Then another.
Then another.
He hurt me.
And then he hurt himself to make sure I was okay.
He was confusing.
He was tiring.
One moment, he was cruel enough to make me want to disappear.
Next, he was gentle enough to make me stay.
Does he care or not?
Does he even know what he’s doing?
I pulled my knees up, holding them close, trying to quiet my shaking breath.
Because watching him change again and again was exhausting. And I didn’t know if I wanted to keep hoping for the version of him that was soft, if the cruel one would always find a way to come back.
I slid off the bed slowly, the floor cold against my knees. My cast knocked against the wood, but I didn’t care. The blanket dragged with me, heavy and warm.
He was still sleeping, if you could even call it that. He looked too uncomfortable to be having a good rest.
I swallowed hard and reached for him, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. The fabric slipped from my hand a few times because I was shaking so much, but I kept trying.
He stirred.
Eyes opening, slow and confused.
