The toaster popped, and the sound made her flinch slightly.
My heart dropped.
I turned off the stove, poured her juice, and set the plate down on the counter nearest to her, not too close, not too far.
Close enough that she could see it.
Close enough that I could still see her.
“I made you breakfast,” I said quietly.
No reply. Not even a glance.
She just blinked, still staring at those meaningless pixels. And I stood there, watching her breath, forcing myself to do the same. Because as long as she was in my eyeline, I could convince myself—just for now—that she was still here. Kind of.
I decided to walk over and set the plate down on the coffee table in front of her, but she didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
I sat down on the floor, leaning back against the couch near her feet, not close enough to crowd her, but close enough that if she moved, I’d know.
The plate sat between us, untouched.
“It doesn’t make up for anything,” I started quietly. “And it doesn’t excuse me.”
My voice sounded… foreign. Small.
“But I was five,” I said, breath hitching a little. “Mum and Dad… they were always yelling. Every night, same thing. He’d say she was clingy, that she depended too much on him, that she was suffocating him. And she’d cry. She always cried.”
I swallowed. “Then one night, she left. Still in her nightgown, barefoot, crying so hard she couldn’t see straight. I followed her.”
I let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. Just air and pain. “Little me… I thought I was her bodyguard. I used to tell her that—that I’d protect her. So I followed. But I stopped at the red light because—because you’re not supposed to cross, right? Red means stop. She didn’t stop. She just—”
My voice cracked.
“She crossed.”
The words were quieter now. Barely there.
“And that night, her tiny bodyguard couldn’t protect her.”
I leaned my head back against the couch.
“I remember the sound before I remember the sight. The brakes. The rain. Then her… lying there. And I couldn’t even scream. I just stood there, shaking.”
My hand came up to my face, pressing hard against my eyes. “Dad didn’t come to the hospital. Didn’t even show up to the funeral. Said he was busy. Said it was her fault for running off. For crossing when she shouldn’t have.”
The room was so quiet, I could hear her breathing. Small, uneven, but real.
And for some reason, that sound was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
I turned my head toward her, slowly.
“And then last year…” I exhaled. “I found a girl who felt like her. Who radiated the same warmth, the same softness.”
Her eyes finally shifted, just barely but enough to see that she was listening.
“I didn’t know what to do with it. I couldn’t believe it. I hadn’t felt that kind of… calm, that kind of light since I was five. So instead of being normal,” my jaw clenched, “I made you my target. I told myself that if I broke you first, you couldn’t leave. If I hurt you, then it’d be on my terms. I didn’t want to need you.”
