I breathe out slowly, the weight of her words hitting me like a physical blow.
“It’s the plight of a woman,” she adds, finally meeting my eyes. “We’re trained to carry other people’s shame like it belongs to us.”
I don’t know why I keep pushing, but there’s a flicker of pain in her eyes that I want to reach in and pull out by the root. “Sounds personal.”
She smiles. It’s a sad smile, and I realize I fucking hate it.
“It’s personal because I recognize the look in her eyes.”
I turn to face her fully. “Did he hurt you?”
I have no idea who the fuck the “he” is, but I want to know for reasons I don’t want to dissect.
She shakes her head and lets out a humorless laugh. “I thought it would be easier if he did. At least physical bruises have the decency to be visible. You can point to them and say,‘See? This is why it hurts.’It’s a sick thought, but I couldn’t help it.”
Something hard and cold settles in my gut.
“It messes with your head,” she says. “Being told you’re beautiful and not enough in the same breath. You start to doubt your own instincts. You question your worth.”
I hold her gaze, refusing to let her look away. “What happened?”
She pulls a loose thread from the throw blanket, her fingers trembling. “I got lucky. I remembered who I was before I disappeared completely. Not everyone does.”
“Madison—”
“I think I’ve had enough heavy conversation for one night.” She tries for a lighter tone, but it falls flat, sticking in the air between us.
Then, before the walls can snap back into place, a single tear escapes and tracks down her cheek.
I don’t think. My hand comes up, my thumb catching the salt and heat of the tear before it reaches her jaw.
The room goes still. The hum of the TV fades into the background. Her eyes are a deep, wet green, brimming with everything she isn’t saying.
I realize I’m still touching her, and I pull back. “Sorry.”
I crossed a line. I know it. But for a split second, I recognized that quiet breaking point, the momentwhen the cost of holding it all together finally becomes too high.
She wipes her face and offers a small, genuine smile. “We need to stop doing this, Doc. I’m making a habit of crying in front of you.”
The news drones on, forgotten.
When she finishes her water, I refill it and set it on the table. “Do you need anything else?”
“You’ve done enough. Thank you.”
“You’re going to be stiff tomorrow,” I warn. “Heat tonight. Gentle movement in the morning. And absolutely no running.”
She smirks. “I don’t run.”
“I have a treadmill if you ever decide to change your mind.”
“Doubtful.” She shifts, sinking deeper into the fabric of the couch. “Can I ask you something?”
“Depends on how much you’re going to judge the answer.”
“Why are you so opposed to running outside? Why the cage?”
The question is casual, but the timing isn’t. She’s learned when to ask. That’s obvious now.
