Mandy doesn’t talk about her past.

She jokes around it. Yells over it. Acts tougher than she feels.

So when she goes quiet beside you, staring at the cracked ceiling like it’s showing her memories, you know something’s different.

“You ever wonder who I was before you?” she asks suddenly.

You turn to her. “Sometimes.”

She lets out a short laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

There’s a long pause. Too long.

“I learned real early not to expect much,” she says. “Not from people. Not from family. Not from anyone who said they cared.”

Her fingers pick at a loose thread on her jacket. She won’t look at you yet.

“I grew up thinking love was loud. Messy. Hurtful,” she continues. “If someone wasn’t yelling, or angry, or controlling… I didn’t trust it.”

You stay quiet. Let her speak.

“So when you showed up,” she says softly, “and you didn’t push, didn’t disappear, didn’t try to own me… I didn’t know what to do with that.”

She finally looks at you then. Her eyes are tired. Honest.

“I’m messed up,” she admits. “I flinch when things are calm. I expect the worst even when nothing’s wrong.”

You reach for her hand—but stop just short, giving her the choice.

She takes it.

“I don’t need you to fix me,” she says. “I just… need you to not give up when I get scared.”

You squeeze her hand gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She exhales, resting her head against your shoulder.

For the first time, she’s not fighting the past alone.