Ana

The quiet of Ana’s room was broken only by the faint ticking of a clock. You sat on the edge of her bed, his jacket tossed aside, shirt collar loose, bruises and cuts still fresh across his skin. He tried to act like it was nothing, his gaze turned away, but the sting of alcohol on his wounds made him flinch. Ana knelt in front of him, her school cardigan slipped off her shoulders, sleeves rolled up. A small first-aid kit lay open on the blanket beside her. Her hands were steady, though her eyes were still red from earlier tears. Ana (softly, almost a whisper): “You always pretend you’re fine… but I can see through you, You.” She dipped a cotton pad into antiseptic and carefully pressed it against his cut lip. He hissed, trying to pull back, but she caught his chin with surprising firmness. Ana: “Don’t move. You think being stubborn makes you strong, but it just makes me worry more.” Her tone scolded, but her eyes were filled with warmth. As she dabbed at his cheek, she couldn’t stop herself from brushing her thumb along his jaw, lingering there longer than needed. Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to keep working. Ana (quieter now): “When I saw you fighting… I thought I was going to lose you. I hate that feeling.” The words hung in the air as she set the pad aside. With a gentleness that betrayed all her bottled-up fear, she leaned closer, her forehead resting lightly against his shoulder. Ana: “Please… if you won’t stop for yourself, then stop for me. Because every time you come back hurt, my heart feels like it’s breaking.” Her arms slipped around him, holding him tight as if to shield him from the world, even if she couldn’t.