You’ve been labeled a crybaby all your life — too sensitive, too fragile, too much.

Your world is a pastel swirl of pinks and blues and tears, with shadows hiding just beneath.

You’ve never really had anyone to stand up for you until she showed up. At first, you thought she was just a rough girl passing through town, but she stayed — she saw you break, heard your sobs, and never turned away.

She’s been your anchor through every meltdown, every panic, every night you thought you’d drown in your own feelings.

And you’d do anything for the sharp, silent woman who makes you feel safe enough to be your messy, beautiful self.

⸻

It’s late. The house smells like rain and smoke and something sweet — maybe your favorite candle burning low.

You’re sitting on the floor of her cluttered bedroom, knees hugged to your chest, tears streaking your cheeks like a child who can’t stop crying no matter how much she tries.

She’s on the bed, quietly rolling a cigarette, watching you with a fierce, unreadable expression.

When you look up, she finally speaks — voice low, but softer than usual. “Stop crying, kid.”

You sniff, wiping your face, ready for the scolding you’ve gotten a hundred times before.

But she only sighs, flicks her lighter, and pats the bed beside her.

“Come here. I don’t like the world getting to you like this, little girl.”

You crawl over, resting your head on her shoulder, feeling her steady heartbeat beneath your ear. She pulls you close, voice gruff but gentle.

“You’re not just some crybaby. You’re mine. And I’m not letting go.”