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Y/N sat on the sofa. Actually, sat wasn't quite the right word. She was curled up, knees drawn almost to her chest, clutching a small pillow like an anchor keeping her from drowning in the pain that came and went without permission. A thin fleece blanket wrapped around her body up to her shoulders, but its soft fabric was entirely powerless against the cold creeping from within—a cold that didn't come from the room temperature, but from the cramps gnawing at her lower abdomen, wave after wave, rhythmic, like tides relentlessly crashing against rocks.
Her face was pale. The kind of pale that couldn't be hidden by makeup or smiles—a pallor born from exhaustion seeping into every pore. A thin sheen of sweat dampened her temples, even though the room wasn't warm. Her lips, usually fresh and slightly teasing when she laughed, now only pursed in resignation whenever a new wave of pain hit. Sometimes she held her breath; sometimes she exhaled long and slow, like someone who had just finished a long run.
Even moving—just shifting her hips slightly—felt like a major project that required all her remaining strength. She knew that if she got up and walked to the kitchen for warm water, she might collapse before she got there.
So she chose to stay still. To endure. To wait until this pain decided to leave on its own.
Pierrot stood at the doorway connecting the small hallway to the living room. From his position, he could see Y/N's entire body from the side. Her small form on the sofa looked so fragile—like a porcelain doll that could one day crack simply because the wind blew too hard. And Pierrot, the clown who had lived for years, who was used to making hundreds of people laugh in a single night, who was used to walking on tightropes without a safety net, who was used to facing cheers and shouts from audiences with a confident smile—felt helpless.
He clasped his own hands in front of his stomach. His fingers intertwined too tightly, knuckles turning white. Sometimes he let go, then clasped them again, like a small ritual to distract his anxiety.
Usually, Pierrot always knew.
When Y/N cried in the middle of the night because she dreamed of being chased by something, Pierrot would come with a glass of warm milk and sit on the floor beside the sofa, not speaking, just waiting until the tears stopped. When Y/N was furious about something unfair happening at work, Pierrot would listen for hours without interrupting, nodding, occasionally interjecting with "and then?" and "that's not right" until the girl's emotions subsided on their own. When Y/N was afraid of something irrational—like shadows in the corner of the room or creaking sounds in the middle of the night—Pierrot would check every corner, open every cabinet, then say in a tone that was too serious: There's nothing there, My Lady. Only me.
But this time was different.
This time, Y/N wasn't crying. Wasn't angry. Wasn't afraid of anything tangible. Y/N was just silent with a pale face and short breaths, and the pain—Pierrot couldn't see it, couldn't touch it, couldn't chase it away with magic tricks or cheap jokes.
That pain was inside Y/N's body. And Pierrot didn't understand.
He observed. Every small change—every furrow in her brow, every breath held too long, every time Y/N's fingers clutched the pillow tighter—he recorded it all like a spectator watching a tragedy unfold. He wanted to ask, but his tongue felt stiff. He wanted to move closer, but his feet stayed frozen.
Why?
Why is she in pain?
Did I do something wrong?
Did someone hurt her at work?
Did she fall when I wasn't looking?
Those questions swirled in his head like a tiny storm, but there were no answers. Pierrot was a creature who had lived for centuries—he had seen kingdoms fall and wars end, he had seen people die and be born, he had seen all forms of human suffering. But in all those years, he had never truly lived with a woman. He had never been close to one. The women he saw were only audiences from afar—figures in rows of seats who laughed when he pretended to fall, who applauded when he conjured fire from his palms.
They weren't Y/N. They had never slept on the same sofa. They had never looked at him with eyes full of trust. And because of that, Pierrot didn't know.
He didn't know what menstruation was. He didn't know that a woman's body could bleed every month and still function. He didn't know that pain could come without wounds and without enemies. He didn't know that Y/N—his strong, cheerful girl who often laughed until her eyes watered—could look this small simply because of something happening inside her own body.
Pierrot felt stupid. Quietly, he hated his own ignorance.
Finally, his feet moved. His steps were slow, almost silent on the apartment's wooden floor. He approached the sofa, then slowly lowered himself until he was kneeling before Y/N. The distance between them was now only an arm's length. Pierrot could see every strand of hair clinging to Y/N's temples from sweat. He could see how weary her eyes were, even though they weren't yet fully open.
Pierrot's lips moved. His voice came out soft, almost like a whisper afraid to disturb the silence.
"What happened?"
Y/N opened her eyes slowly. Her eyelids lifted with difficulty, as if weighed down by something heavy. When her eyes met Pierrot's, the girl tried to smile—but that smile didn't reach her cheeks. Only the corners of her lips lifted slightly, and even that felt forced.
"Pierrot ..." her voice was hoarse, rough, like someone who had just woken from a long sleep. "... I'm on my period."
Pierrot tilted his head. His brows furrowed. His lips formed a small 'O' without sound.
"Period?" he repeated, as if the word were foreign on his tongue. "What is a period?"
And when he asked, he asked sincerely. There was not a trace of joking in his voice. His eyes were honest—empty of knowledge, but full of genuine concern.
Y/N stared at him. For a moment, she forgot the cramps running through her abdomen. She saw Pierrot before her—the tall clown with slightly messy hair and golden eyes that never lied. And Y/N smiled—this time more genuine, though still tired.
"Remember, Pierrot," she said softly, "for all those years you've lived, you've never truly been close to a woman."
Pierrot was silent. That was true. For years—decades, centuries, he didn't even remember exactly how many—he had only been part of a performance. He interacted with audiences from the stage, at a safe distance. He saw their smiles, heard their laughter, but never shared the same space with them. Never shared a life. And Y/N was the first woman he had ever truly known.
Y/N who brought him into this small apartment. Y/N who gave him warm food every night. Y/N who taught him that there were words beyond "yes" and "no" to describe feelings.
So patiently, Y/N explained. She explained about menstruation—that it was normal, something half the human population experienced every month. She explained about the uterus shedding its lining because there was no pregnancy. She explained about the blood that came out, about the cramps that tormented, about the mood swings that came suddenly, about the body that felt like it wasn't your own for a few days.
Pierrot listened. He didn't interrupt. Didn't raise an eyebrow. Didn't make sounds of surprise or horror. He just sat before Y/N with his knees on the floor, and with every word that came out of the girl's mouth, Pierrot stored it in his memory—in a special space in his head that he reserved only for things related to Y/N.
When Y/N finished, Pierrot bowed his head. "So..." he said softly, "you're in pain."
It wasn't a question but a statement. "It's okay," Y/N answered quickly. Too quickly. "It's normal."
Normal. Pierrot repeated that word in his mind. Normal. Yes, maybe it was normal for a woman's body. Maybe it was normal for the world. Maybe it was normal for everyone except him who knew nothing. But normal didn't mean painless. And Pierrot couldn't bear to see Y/N in pain.
His chest felt tight. Something was lodged in his throat—not tears, because Pierrot rarely cried, but a weight just as heavy. He saw Y/N wince again when the cramp came, saw the girl's fingers clutch the pillow tighter, and Pierrot felt like a failure.
He failed because he didn't know. He failed because he couldn't protect Y/N from something inside her own body.
Without a word, Pierrot stood up. His legs were stiff from kneeling too long, but he didn't care. He turned, grabbed Y/N's phone lying on the table near the window, and began typing with slightly trembling fingers.
How to help someone on their period?
Dozens of articles appeared. Pierrot read them one by one. He read seriously, eyes narrowed, brows occasionally lifting. He read from health websites, from women's forums, from personal blogs. He compared the content—checking which information was repeated, which sounded reasonable, which might be hoaxes. He even read the comments beneath the articles, where women shared their experiences with one another.
Provide a warm compress. Prepare their favorite food. Make sure supplies like pads are available. Accompany and listen. Don't dismiss their pain. A hug can help if the person is comfortable being hugged.
Pierrot read each sentence multiple times. He memorized them. He repeated them in his heart like a mantra.
Then he locked the phone screen. "I'll be back."
Y/N turned her head. "Pierrot—"
But before the girl could ask further, Pierrot had already rushed out. The apartment door opened and closed with an automatic lock. His hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, then the elevator, then the lobby.
About an hour later, the apartment door opened again. Pierrot entered with several shopping bags in both hands. The bags were colorful—red from the minimarket on the corner, brown from the bakery, white from the 24-hour pharmacy. There was another bag that looked heavier, probably containing items he had bought in confusion from the personal care aisle.
He set everything down on the small table near the sofa, then began taking out the contents one by one carefully, as if they were made of glass.
A pack of pads—no, three packs. Different brands. Pierrot didn't even know which one was right, so he bought all the ones that looked familiar from television commercials. A warm compress. The instant kind, just kneaded until it felt warm.
Chocolate bars. Two. One dark chocolate, one milk chocolate—because Pierrot wasn't sure which Y/N preferred. Herbal tea. Chamomile, peppermint, ginger. Some snacks. Potato chips, biscuits, and one jar of cookies that Y/N liked but rarely bought because they were a bit pricey.
Pierrot stopped. He stared at all the items scattered across the table.
"I..." he began, his voice slightly hoarse from rushing earlier, "...wasn't sure which brand was right. So I bought several."
Y/N stared at the table now almost full. She saw pads of various sizes, chocolates with shiny packaging, teas whose scents began to spread through the room. And Pierrot stood beside that table, hair messier than before, breath still slightly labored, eyes looking at her with hopeful expectation like a child waiting for exam results.
Y/N couldn't help but smile. "Pierrot..."
"Is something missing, My Lady?"
Pierrot asked with a serious face. Completely serious. As if he was ready to go out again, run to a store still open, buy whatever Y/N mentioned.
Y/N shook her head. "More than enough."
Hearing that answer, Pierrot's shoulders—which had been tense all along—finally dropped. He let out a long sigh of relief, as if a heavy burden had just been lifted from his shoulders.
"Thank goodness ..." he whispered. Then, louder, "Wait. I'll cook soup to warm your stomach."
Pierrot didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed several shopping bags and walked to the kitchen—the tiny kitchen in the corner of the apartment with only one stove and two pots—and began moving with practiced ease.
Y/N heard the sound of the faucet turning on. The rhythmic chop of a knife against a cutting board—precise, confident, nothing like the hesitant cuts of a beginner. The click of the gas igniter, followed by the soft whoosh of a blue flame coming to life.
Pierrot cooked like someone who had spent decades mastering the art—because he had. His hands moved with fluid grace, dicing vegetables into perfect uniform pieces, adjusting the heat with a flick of his wrist, tasting and seasoning without hesitation. What he lacked in knowledge about certain human experiences, he more than made up for in culinary skill.
Soon, the aroma began to fill the room. A rich, savory broth—vegetable-based, deeply flavored with herbs and spices, simmering to perfection. The scent of carrots, potatoes, celery, and a hint of garlic and thyme. Warmth in liquid form. The kind of smell that wrapped around you like a gentle embrace. Y/N closed her eyes. For the first time that night, the pain felt a little lighter.
Pierrot emerged from the kitchen with careful steps. In both hands, he carried a ceramic bowl of soup. Steam rose from its surface, carrying a savory, herbal aroma that spread through the entire room. Pierrot walked slowly, too slowly, as if he were carrying something very precious and afraid of dropping it.
He stopped in front of Y/N. The bowl was extended with both hands—like an offering. "Still hot," he said. His voice was soft, almost drowned out by the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Y/N accepted the bowl. Her hands met Pierrot's for a moment, and she felt his skin warm—warmer than usual. Maybe because he had just been cooking, maybe because he had been running around outside.
"Thank you," Y/N said.
Pierrot didn't sit down immediately. He remained standing there, beside the sofa, hands clasped at his sides, watching Y/N anxiously. His eyes moved from the bowl, to Y/N's face, to the bowl again. He waited. Like a chef presenting his finest creation to the most important food critic in the world.
Y/N blew gently on the rising steam. Her spoon dipped into the soup, lifting a bit of golden broth along with a piece of carrot and potato. She blew again, then brought the spoon to her mouth.
The soup was perfect. Rich, deeply flavored, with layers of herbs and vegetables that had been simmered to release their full essence. The vegetables were cut uniformly—each piece the ideal size for a single bite. Silky, tender, and warm. A warmth that spread from her throat to her stomach, radiating through her body, soothing tense nerves. A warmth that made the cramps in her lower abdomen ease slightly, though not disappear entirely.
Y/N chewed slowly, savoring, then swallowed. "Delicious."
Pierrot lifted his head, his eyes widened slightly. "Really?"
"Yes," Y/N smiled, "truly delicious."
Pierrot fell silent. His lips moved, as if he wanted to say a lot but didn't know where to start. Finally, he only asked, "You're... not just trying to make me happy?"
Y/N chuckled softly. Her laugh was weak because she was still tired. "No."
Only after hearing that answer did Pierrot's tense shoulders finally relax. His large frame seemed to shrink slightly, relieved, and he let out a long breath that sounded like a soft "ahhh."
"I'm glad..." he said.
He pulled a wooden chair from the dining table and sat directly in front of Y/N. The distance between them was only an arm's length. Pierrot leaned his elbows on his knees, chin resting on his hands, and watched every spoonful that entered the girl's mouth.
Pierrot lifted his head. For a moment, his eyes met Y/N's. And at the corner of his lips, something lifted—almost imperceptible, but real. A small smile. The smile he kept specially for Y/N.
As soon as the bowl was empty, Pierrot immediately took it from Y/N's hands before the girl could say anything.
"I'll wash it," he said. "You rest."
Without giving Y/N a chance to refuse, he turned and walked to the kitchen. The sound of running water was heard for a few minutes, interspersed with the sound of a sponge against ceramic and the bowl being placed on the drying rack.
Meanwhile, Y/N curled back up on the sofa. The cramp came again. Like an uninvited guest, it appeared without permission—waving from her lower abdomen, spreading to her back, making her muscles tighten uncontrollably.
"Ah..." Y/N's breath caught. Her hand reached for her stomach, pressing down, but the pain remained.
Pierrot, who was drying the bowl with a cloth, immediately turned. His eyes caught the change in Y/N's expression in an instant. He put the bowl down on the counter—not caring whether it was dry or not—and walked quickly toward her.
"Does it hurt again?"
Y/N nodded weakly. Her face was pale again, paler than before. Sweat began to dampen her forehead once more.
Pierrot immediately grabbed his phone—the phone he hadn't put down—and opened his search history. His fingers scrolled quickly, his golden eyes reading at an alarming speed.
"Use a warm compress for fifteen to twenty minutes," he murmured, quoting one of the articles.
He set the phone down and quickly grabbed the compress he had bought earlier. Carefully, he heated it—following the instructions on the package, kneading it until it felt warm in his palm. But Pierrot didn't stop there. He pressed the compress to his own palm first, waiting a few seconds, feeling its temperature.
"Can't be too hot," he murmured. Only after he was sure the temperature was right—warm, but not enough to burn the skin—did he hand the compress to Y/N.
"Here."
Y/N took the compress and placed it over her stomach, just below her navel. The warmth spread slowly, like sunlight penetrating cold soil. Gradually, the cramps that had been running through her abdomen began to ease. Not completely gone, but the intensity lessened. Y/N's breathing, which had been short and shallow, began to steady.
Pierrot observed every small change in her face. He saw the furrow in her brow begin to fade. He saw the corners of her lips, previously pursed, begin to relax. He saw her eyes, which had been tightly shut, now slightly open, half-aware.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yes." That answer was enough. Just three syllables. But for Pierrot, it was like the most beautiful melody he had ever heard.
He smiled with relief. For a moment, he looked like the clown on stage—cheerful, enthusiastic, ready to entertain. But then his expression changed. He turned to the small shelf near the television, where dozens of DVDs were arranged neatly. Some were horror films, some romantic dramas, some comedies he had already watched many times with Y/N.
"Do you want to watch a movie?" he asked.
Y/N nodded weakly. "Sure."
Pierrot stood and walked to the DVD shelf. His fingers moved among the plastic cases, choosing carefully. He didn't choose a movie he liked, or one that was popular. He chose one he knew Y/N liked—a romantic comedy with a clumsy protagonist and a always-happy ending. Pierrot had watched it three times, but he never got bored because Y/N always laughed at the same parts.
He inserted the DVD into the player. The television came on, and the screen's light filled the dim room. Pierrot returned to sit close to Y/N, close enough to feel the warmth of her body beside him.
His gaze shifted several times from the television screen to Y/N, then back again. His fingers moved restlessly on his thigh. His lips opened, then closed, then opened again.
Finally, he spoke. "May I hold you, My Lady?"
Y/N turned. She saw Pierrot beside her—the tall clown with white hair and golden eyes that could never hide his feelings. She saw the restlessness, the worry, and also the hope.
"Sure," Y/N answered.
Pierrot slowly opened his arms. His movements were slow, as if he was afraid of hurting Y/N if he moved too fast. Y/N shifted her body—with some difficulty, because cramps still occasionally stung—until her back leaned against Pierrot's chest.
The clown immediately hugged her, but his embrace was gentle. Very gentle. Not too tight, not pressing, because he feared any pressure could make Y/N's stomach hurt more.
His hand moved slowly, stroking Y/N's hair. His fingers slipped through the strands, then out, then in again. Occasionally, they would catch on a small tangle at the ends, and Pierrot would stop, carefully untangle it, then continue.
Everything was done with full attention.
And there on the sofa, with the romantic comedy still playing on the screen, with the lingering aroma of the soup still in the air, with the warmth of the compress on her stomach and the warmth of Pierrot's body at her back—Y/N closed her eyes.
Outside the apartment, the city remained noisy. Sirens, horns, voices of people still awake. But inside, everything was muffled. All that remained was the rhythmic heartbeat, the gradually calming breath, and a clown holding his girl as if the outside world didn't matter.
Pierrot looked down. He kissed the top of Y/N's head softly, then whispered, "You're strong, My Lady."
THE END