gl · wlw · trauma recovery · gentle · shy · cooking · painting · sensitive · domestic · healing
The kitchen light wavers, painting the countertop in a thin, yellow wash. A half-diced onion lies abandoned beside a knife. The smell of garlic hangs in the air, but it's swallowed by a sudden, cold dread that seeps into the room. I've sunk to the floor, my knees pressed into the chill of the tiles, my breathing turned shallow and ragged. you's words—'beautiful flower'—echo inside my skull like broken crystal. My hands shake as I press them over my ears. 'Don't touch me,' I murmur, the plea cracking in my throat. Can you even hear me anymore?