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You perched at the edge of the bed you and Abby had shared just hours before, your eyes red and swollen, tears slipping down your cheeks as you choke back loud sobs. Your sternum felt as if it had just shattered, the broken pieces scattering inside your body.
You’d been staying with her since the fight that went down in the small living room of your dorm which left you almost completely numb. Your partner’s words had cut deeper than ever, and you couldn’t remain in the space that your heart broke in.
Two years ago, everything had felt perfect. They were considerate then, sweet in ways that made you believe love could be tender forever. Biweekly flowers adorned your bedside table, music from the well-preserved records that had been looted just for you filled the area you claimed your own, but somewhere along the way, that sweetness soured. But you couldn’t cry. Not in front of them. Every time you did, they said, “Don’t be a little bitch.” So, you swallowed your feelings whole no matter what, until nothing felt worth holding onto anymore.
Everything you had been keeping in all that time spilled out quietly in the evenings you had spent in this familiar place, and you were grateful to be alone in Abby’s room when everything finally unraveled.
. . .
The water had gone cold as it coated your back, drawing a constant shiver from you, but you stayed beneath it anyway. You hadn’t meant to cry again—not after the way your body had already emptied itself earlier.
You heard the front door open just as you turned off the faucet. Abby’s footsteps were heavy, familiar, and you moved quickly, wrapping yourself in the same towel you used last night, stepping into the bedroom before you saw your own sad demeanor in the mirror which would only cause you to cry again.
Her eyes caught yours the moment you emerged—wet hair clinging to your cheeks, eyes puffy and red, lips swollen. She didn’t say anything at first. Just scanned every inch of your face. Then, she spoke softly as she set the last of her equipment down next to the counter.
“You okay?”
You nod, turning away and dropping the towel to the floor before grabbing one of Abby’s grey-blue shirts, which was already laid out on the bed, and covering your bare body with it before the cold air had enough time to make you shake. You turn back to face her and catch her eyes darting up to yours rather quickly as her face glows with a small tint of deep red.
“I’m fine, Abs.”
Later, you curled into her bed, the sheets still warm from the dryer, and let the quiet hum of a boring movie that she turned on fill the room. She lay beside you, her arm draped loosely across your waist, grabbing the back of your shirt with only a slight grip, almost as if she thought you were to run away at any moment. The grip was not tight, but it was there and grounded you. You could feel just how tense her limbs were, the way she held herself back like she was afraid of breaking something fragile. You turned to her, voice barely above a whisper.
“Are you okay?”
Her moment of silence was deafening. She didn’t look away from the screen, and her grip tightened on your shirt.
“I should be asking you that.”
You took a quick breath and pursed your lips. She looked unbothered, but her body language said otherwise.
“I already said I’m fine.”
The sentence escaped your lips like you had been waiting to say that, waiting for this exact moment. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the screen like it could speak for her, except now, she let go of your shirt, the bunched-up fabric coming undone slowly.
“I just don’t feel like talking about it,” you added, defensive now, your voice cracking at the edges.
Still, she said nothing. But her eyes flicked toward you—once, then again—and it was enough. You felt the words claw their way up your throat, uninvited but unstoppable.
“I just…” You swallowed hard. “I just wish I felt loved. By someone.”
You felt her warm hand slip underneath the dark blue fabric, pressing against your bare back and creating loving circles with her fingers. Abby turned then, fully, her gaze steady and unflinching.
“You are loved. By everyone around you.”
You shook your head. “Not like that.”
She reached for your hand, her fingers curling around yours with a quiet sense of urgency. The touch sent a jolt through you—warmth flooding your cheeks, your breath catching in your throat. You looked at her, really looked, and she was already watching you. Her eyes were full of light even in the darkness of the room. She looked at you with such love, something you had been longing for since before you could remember.
She shifts closer. The blanket rustles and her knee bump yours. Her eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, then down again—like she was searching for signs of disapproval, to which no avail. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she lifts her hand and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear before planting her fingers down on your thigh. The slight buzz you received from the warm touch lingers on your cheek and gives you a tingly feeling on your scalp.
She was just close enough that you could feel her breath slightly on your mouth, making your lips part without meaning to. She stills for a moment, just staring at you, and you finally feel vulnerable again. Her hand tightens slightly around yours, grounding you once more with her simple touch alone. Her other hand lifts again, hesitates, then brushes your cheek with the backs of her fingers. You lean into it before you realize you have.
She swallows. You can feel the tension in her arm, the way she’s holding herself still, waiting for something—anything—to tell her it’s okay.
You bring yourself closer to her, melting deeper into her touch, and your lips are just barely touching now. That’s all she needs.
She leans in, her nose brushing yours, and for a heartbeat you’re suspended there. Her hand cups your jaw with a gentle touch, barely there. Then her lips meet yours tentatively, like she’s afraid to press too hard. Like she’s afraid you’ll break.
Because in her eyes, you already have.
The way you had cried quietly the night before, believing Abby was sound asleep and would not interrupt your private moment. The way you fold into silence when someone raises their voice. And she knows that you’ve been taught to hide your hurt, to make yourself smaller, quieter, easier to love. So she kisses you like you’re glass. Not because you’re weak, but because you’ve been shattered too many times by someone who didn’t bother to be careful.
Her hand stays at your jaw, steady and warm, her thumb brushing against your cheek, ready to catch any tears that may fall. She doesn’t deepen the kiss—not yet. She waits. She listens. She lets you decide.
And you do just that.
A content sigh escapes you quietly and you grab her forearm, running your hand up and down slowly, feeling the way her muscles flex as her hold on your jaw grows more desirous.
Her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers curling gently into your damp hair. She shifts closer, her breath catching as she deepens the kiss—not rushed, not demanding, just more.
You feel the light trace of her thumb against the edge of your ear, and it makes you shiver. She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes searching, her lips parted like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how.
You don’t speak either. You just lean in again, and this time she meets you halfway.
The second kiss is slower. Sweeter. Her hand finds your waist, anchoring you, and you let yourself melt into her into the quiet, into the safety, into the way she holds you like you’re something worth holding. You arch into her forbearing yet desperate touch, drawn by something deeper than want.
She shifts, her hand sliding up beneath your shirt, palm warm against your skin. You breathe in sharply, and she pauses—not to pull away, but to look at you. Her eyes search yours, quiet and steady, and your eyebrows furrow up right in the middle, showing desperation to experience all of that over again. She moves like she’s memorizing you—your breath, your softness, the way you tremble when she kisses just below your jaw.
She exhales softly against your neck, her hands returning to your hips, thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles into your skin. Her lips follow—pressing just above your collarbone, lingering longer with each kiss. You thread your fingers through her hair, securing her there as if you’re making sure she stays for good. She hums against your skin, and the sound vibrates through you, causing a content sigh to leave your lips.
“I love you,” she murmurs between kisses, the words barely rising above breath.