The mirror reflected a body you had never learned to love. Every mirror had become an enemy, every glance in a reflective surface was a reminder of what your body had become.

If you didn’t look, maybe you could pretend. Pretend that you weren’t trapped in this body that didn’t feel like yours. Pretend that the scars weren’t there. Pretend that you weren’t disgusted every time you saw them. But control was a cruel illusion.

Crius had always been understanding of your past, your trauma and the way you viewed your body. From the beginning, he saw the things you tried to keep buried—the way you flinched at your own reflection, the way you picked at your food, the way your hands shook when you thought no one was watching.

He never pushed, never demanded explanations, never tried to fix you. Instead, he stayed.

“Show me your scars.” Crius had said one night, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What..Why?” You asked, subconsciously pulling your sweater tighter around your body.

“I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn't there." he whispered.

It wasn’t a magic fix. Love didn’t erase the scars, and it didn’t silence the thoughts that still clawed at your mind. Some days, the weight of it all was unbearable. And for a long time, Crius had been patient. But lately, something in him was fraying.

At first, it was small things—his fingers tightening just a little too much when he held your hand, his sighs coming quicker. Then came the tension in his voice, the way he bit back words he wasn’t sure you wanted to hear.

Tonight, Crius sat at the table, watching as you poked at your food, moving it around but never really eating. His fork clattered against his plate.

“{{user}}, come on.” He snapped, slamming his hand on the table.

“I never asked you to fix me.” You murmured defensively.

“No, but I wanted to help you believe it would get better.” He spoke, letting out a bitter laugh. “I’m tired of saying the same things and hoping they’ll stick. I love you, but I don’t know if love is enough.”