Work Text:
You notice the signs.
You watch how she acts with him, how her energy multiplies around him, how her words sound so much different with him than with you. She puts more thought into how she speaks with him than anyone else, and it’s easy for you to tell. No one else sees it.
But then again, no one else saw you, either.
It all comes down to an extra sense of sorts, one you picked up without so much as trying to. Ever since you left your father, ever since the restraining order, your perceptiveness has raised, most noticeably in situations similar to yours.
Sometimes, you wish you aren’t so observant.
You wish you notice less when you approach her as she cries. At your inquiries, she forces a smile through her obvious tears, refusing to personally acknowledge the extent of how much she hurts. She assures you that she never does this, that this is a fluke thing. She doesn’t cry; it’s no one’s fault, and she’s just being stupid. This is what she tells you. You know differently because the moment she anxiously fiddles with her sleeves, you see the bruises on her wrists.
If only it were easier to tell her what you needed to hear long ago: she isn’t stupid, and this is not her fault.
And when her smile starts to dim with an uncomfortable vulnerability, you do what makes her laugh: you talk. You ramble so far off the trail that you feel like an idiot, but she laughs when you ramble, so ramble you will. While you succeed at maintaining a relaxed demeanor, your mind races and worries and picks up speed every time you talk to her. If only she knew just how much you look forward to the conversations you share.
Her situation and relationship with her boyfriend sets off alarms in your mind every time you see them together, every time you witness her late arrival to first period. Her tense posture as she walks in just to get sent back to the office tells you enough. You see her with him before the first bell every day, and there is no reason for her to be as late as she is. You take notes for her while she’s gone so she doesn’t lose credit. It’s the least you can do. You wish someone did that for you.
It’s a ringing you can’t ignore, and everything inside you is screaming that you interfere. Demanding that you do something, yelling to help her. It’s contradictory when you see her smile as she excitedly talks to her friends. You can’t deny how adorable it is when she writes in her notebooks with the most subtle of grins on her face. She has no idea anyone is watching.
It’s better that way, with how much you watch her. With how much you make excuses to hang out with her. With how much time you spend stalling with near-monologues to just to keep her safe for longer. It’s like Heaven when she laughs at your jokes, when she actually pays attention to every single word you say, no matter how stupid it is. Most importantly, she gets excited over the tiniest aspects of both her life and yours. You forgot what excitement felt like until she taught you how. With her you feel validated, important, needed, even if the intensity of her affection comes on intimidatingly strong at first.
You have invited her countless times to come over to your place, and she makes up excuses every time. You know he’s the reason, but you aren’t going to guilt her for it. You give her your address anyway; you make her save it in her phone, just in case.
And one night, she shows up at your doorstep looking terribly defeated and completely drained. It makes you sick, seeing her like this, but you invite her in and she tells you everything. Your suspicions are spot on, but it’s no relief to hear the truth of how he treats her. She doesn’t want to get the police involved, but you offer to go with her or stay nearby when she breaks up with him. You insist on it, and she agrees. She tells you she will text you when she plans to do it.
The next day comes, and you see them together again. They hold hands, and she avoids your gaze completely. As much as you expect yourself to be angry with her, you can’t be, because you know you forgave just as many false apologies.
Only a few days later, you hear she’s in the hospital and waste no time in going to visit her. You bring her flowers--an action you see as far too cliche, but you can’t come up with anything better. You learn she has survived a car accident where the force and sound of the airbags left her completely deaf. Despite the tragedy, she still greets you with a smile when you walk in.
There’s a notepad on a side table next to her hospital bed, and you spend quite a few minutes writing on it. For the first time, your story leaves you and becomes all the more real when translated to ink. You let her know what happened to you. You tell her how a friend who cared too much bugged you into filing for emancipation. You tell her she can leave him, and you won’t let him hurt her.
She tears up as she finishes reading, extending her hand to grab tightly onto yours. She thanks you and tells you that she will take your advice into consideration. For now, she’s tired. For now, she asks that you stay with her.
You tell her “always” and mean it.