Helena comes crashing into your apartment from a rough landing on the balcony, stumbling into the bedroom with simultaneously pulling wood shards and pebbles from a few cuts in her forearm.

“Stupid fucking…” is all you hear before she’s out of earshot, the sound of running water soon filling the atmosphere. Though not loud enough to drown out the low buzz of radio tunes, you and her’s favorite song playing on the station.

You debate on going to check up on her, or keep cleaning. You’re not a stranger to her so-called secret life. What she does is hard, it’s understandable that she needs her alone.

But, then again, you haven’t spent time with her in weeks.