(…This is going to be a problem.) The thought came, clear and unavoidable, and this time I didn't try to deny it.
Minutes passed. I tried to fall asleep, but it didn't come. My body stayed still, eyes closed, but my mind refused to settle. It lingered somewhere behind me, fixed on a place I wasn't looking at—or maybe a place I was deliberately avoiding. The rain had stopped completely, and the room had fallen into a kind of silence that didn't feel empty, just heavy, settling slowly into the space between breaths.
Then something broke it. A faint sound. Fabric brushing softly against fabric—so light it almost didn't exist. It stopped, and for a second I thought I had imagined it. Then came another sound. Soft footsteps. Careful. Uneven.
I didn't move. Not even slightly. I just opened my eyes enough to see. I glanced toward the bed. She wasn't sitting anymore. She was standing beside it—or trying to. Her right hand pressed against the wall, fingers weakly searching for support. Her balance wasn't steady, but she moved anyway. Slow. Deliberate. Like every step had to be forced through.
(…That's not going to end well.)
She made her way across the room, toward the desk. Toward me. Her hand reached out and rested against the edge, light, cautious, as if even that much contact might make too much noise. She didn't realize I was already awake. After a moment, she turned toward the kitchen. One step. Then another.
Her balance slipped.
But she didn't hit the ground. Not completely.
I moved before I thought about it. My hand caught her arm, the other steadying her at the waist, pulling her just enough to keep her upright. The movement was automatic—faster than I expected. For a moment, she didn't react at all. No sound. No resistance. Just stillness. Like her mind hadn't caught up yet.
I adjusted her stance, keeping my grip firm enough so she wouldn't fall again. She turned slightly, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest second—then dropping immediately. Her gaze fixed on the floor. There was something there. Not just fear. Something heavier. Quieter.
I pulled the chair behind her and nudged it into place. "Sit," I said quietly. "You're not steady enough to walk."
She hesitated. It was small. Easy to miss. Her fingers twitched faintly at her sides before she moved, like she had to decide whether she was allowed to listen. "…I—I…" The words didn't form. She swallowed, then lowered herself onto the chair. Careful. Measured. Like even this needed to be done right.
Her shoulders stayed tense, slightly raised, and her hands settled awkwardly in her lap, fingers pressing together as if she didn't know where to put them. I let go of her arm only when I was sure she wouldn't fall. Stepping back slightly, I gave her space.
She didn't look up. "…I'm… sorry…" The words came out thin, unsteady.
I frowned slightly. (Why apologize for that?) The thought lingered, then shifted. (…She hasn't stopped being careful around me.)
"Why were you trying to walk?" I asked. "What did you need from the kitchen?" My voice wasn't harsh, but it wasn't soft either. Something in between.
She blinked, caught off guard. Her fingers tightened together in her lap. "…I… was just…" She stopped again, her gaze dropping further. "…water…" Barely a sound. Still, I heard it.
(…Water.) Right.
I turned without another word and walked to the kitchen. The quiet followed me there. I picked up a glass, filled it, then came back. She hadn't moved.
"…Here. Water."
I held it out. She didn't take it immediately. Her hands stayed where they were, fingers curling slightly, like she needed a moment to decide if she should.
"…take it," I said, quieter this time.
After a second, she moved. Slowly. Carefully. Her hands lifted, not steady, reaching toward the glass. Her fingers brushed mine—just for a moment—and then she pulled back slightly, like she shouldn't have.
"…thank you…" Her voice was barely there.
(…Again.)
She held the glass with both hands, tight. Too tight. For a moment, she didn't drink. Just stared at it, like it might disappear if she didn't hold on properly. Then she raised it. A small sip. Another. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and only then did her grip loosen slightly.
I watched without meaning to. (…She's holding it like it might be taken away.) Something about that didn't sit right.
"…you don't have to rush," I said. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
She froze for a second, then gave a small nod—barely noticeable—and continued, slower this time.
When she finished, she lowered the glass carefully. But she didn't hand it back. Her fingers tightened around it again. Not because she needed it—but like letting go of it might be a mistake.
I didn't say anything. I just watched.
And for the first time, it settled into something clearer—not just the injuries, not just the fear. The way she moved. The way she spoke. The way she hesitated over something as simple as asking for water.
(…She doesn't know what she's allowed to do here.)
The thought stayed. Quiet. Heavy.
She was still holding the glass. Not drinking. Not moving. Just… waiting.
And this time—I didn't push the thought away.