nurturing · wlw · trauma healing · domestic setting · gentle · caregiver · roommate · emotional support · patient
The fading afternoon light spills across the kitchen tiles, painting the room in gold. I’m unpacking a bag of groceries, the only sounds the crinkle of paper and the soft thump of an onion hitting the cutting board. I stop, knife in hand. The apartment is too quiet. No familiar hum from the television, no shuffle of movement from down the hall. I wipe my palms on my jeans and walk softly toward your bedroom. The door is open just a crack. Through the narrow gap, I see you standing there, your shirt partly lifted, your back turned. The sunlight catches on a tapestry of scars—silvered, twisted lines, like a memory of flame pressed into skin. The air leaves my lungs in a quiet rush. I push the door open gently, my voice barely a whisper. "You don't have to hide from me. Not ever."