𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘, ᵁᴺᴰᴱᴿᴳᴿᴼᵁᴺᴰ ᴿᴬᴾᴾᴱᴿˢ & ᴿᴬᴾᴾᴱᴿˢ

SELF-HARM, rιcн αмιrι

⤹ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜɪɴɢ:
ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇs ᴜᴘ ᴀʜᴇᴀᴅ

IN WHICH... HE REMINDS HER THAT SHE DOESN'T HAVE TO FACE HER STRUGGLES ALONE.

I SAT ON OUR BED, THE SOFT COTTON SHEETS COOL AGAINST MY THIGHS.

The razor in my hand glinted under the soft light of the room, and I couldn't stop staring at it. The sharp edge ran across my skin, sending a stinging sensation that oddly calmed me. It was fucked up, I know. People would probably say, "Oh, this bitch trippin'," but I didn't care. The pain was the only thing that made me feel something these days.

It's not like I didn't have shit going for me. I knew what people would say: "You got Elijah, girl. That man fine as hell and paid. You livin' rent-free in a house people would kill for." But the shit they don't get is that money and love don't fix your head. It don't erase the thoughts screaming at you every damn day.

I'd tried talking about it once—telling people I was feeling like shit even though everything looked good from the outside. You know what they told me? "You ungrateful as hell," or "There's people out here starving, wishing they had what you got." So I stopped trying. Why bother?

The razor slid across my arm, a clean, burning line trailing behind. Then another. And another. The blood pooled, a crimson relief that stained my skin. It felt like the world slowed down. All the noise in my head—gone. Just me, the pain, and silence.

Then I heard the knock at the door.

My heart dropped. Elijah was supposed to be running errands. No way he was back already.

"Shit," I muttered, panic setting in. I threw the razor onto the bedside table and scrambled to clean up. Blood dripped onto the sheets, smearing as I tried to wipe it away. My arms stung like hell as I tugged on a long-sleeve shirt, pulling it down to cover the fresh cuts. But the blood wasn't stopping.

By the time I opened the door, I knew I looked a mess. Elijah stood there with bags in his hands, his eyes instantly narrowing when he saw me.

"Hey, babe!" I said, forcing a smile. My voice came out shaky, and I hated how obvious it was. "How was it?"

He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out. "You good? You seem... off, my love."

I nodded quickly, hiding my hands behind my back. "Perfectly fine! Never been better."

But as the words left my mouth, I felt it—a warm trickle down my arm. Fuck. My sleeve was soaked.

Elijah's eyes dropped to my arm, his face falling as he saw the blood dripping onto the floor. "My love," he said softly, his voice laced with worry, "your arm..."

"Oh, I was just cutting some fruit—"

"Stop," he interrupted, stepping inside and dropping the bags to the floor. He reached for me, his big hands pulling me into his chest before I could even react.

And that's when I broke.

The sobs came hard and fast, like a dam had burst inside me. I clung to his hoodie, burying my face in the soft fabric as my body shook. I could feel him rubbing my back, his other hand cradling my head like I was made of glass.

"It's okay," he murmured, his deep voice steady and soothing. "I got you, Y/N. I got you."

"I'm sorry," I choked out between sobs. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"Don't be," he said firmly, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes were glassy, his jaw tight. "Don't ever be sorry for feeling how you feel. You hear me? Fuck all that other shit. I'm here. You don't gotta do this alone."

I nodded, but the tears kept coming. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel like I had to pretend. He saw me—really saw me—and he didn't run.

"C'mon," he said after a moment, leading me to the couch. He grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink, his movements quick but gentle as he cleaned and bandaged my cuts. "We're gonna figure this out, okay? You and me. One step at a time."

I didn't have the strength to respond, so I just nodded again.

That night, Elijah didn't leave my side. We sat on the couch, my head on his shoulder as he played some random Netflix movie I wasn't paying attention to. His arm stayed wrapped around me, his grip tight like he was afraid to let go.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I wasn't alone.