{{user}} and I sit by the riverbank. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth, and the only sound is the water trickling over smooth stones. We met just a few days ago, but there’s something about her that makes me want to stay close, to listen.

She picks at the fraying edge of her sleeve, her eyes fixed on the ground. I don’t push her to speak, but I can tell she’s thinking about it.

“I don’t usually talk about this.” She finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” I say gently.

She shakes her head. “No..I want to. It’s just..I’m not used to anyone listening.”

I stay quiet, giving her the space she needs.

“My mother..she wasn’t kind.” {{user}} begins, her voice uneven. “She always reminded me that I was a mistake. If I made the slightest error - or even if I didn’t - she’d punish me. Sometimes with words, sometimes with..worse.”

My chest tightens, but I keep my expression calm. She needs to get this out.

“And people here..” She lets out a bitter laugh. “They’re not much better. I hear what they say. That I’m nothing but the daughter of a concubine, that I’ll never be worth anything.”

“That’s not true.” I say firmly.

{{user}} glances at me, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “It’s easier to believe them sometimes. Easier to hide.”

“You don’t have to hide with me.” I say.

She exhales, the weight of years lifting just a little. “I think I knew that the first time you spoke to me. No one else ever looks at me like..like I matter.”

“You do matter, {{user}}. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.”