Sparkle has always treated everything like a performance.

A stage. A script. A game where she decides which mask to wear.

But with you—

something slips.

You don’t remember when it started.

Maybe it was one bad night that turned into two.
Maybe it was the quiet understanding between both of you — that neither of you knew how to handle what was inside your own heads.

What matters is this:

You both noticed.

The small signs first.

Long sleeves when it wasn’t cold.
The way your hands lingered just a little too long when cleaning up.
The silence that followed certain days.

Sparkle saw it.

Of course she did.

She always notices what others miss.

But for once—

she doesn’t joke about it.

No teasing smile.
No mockery.

Just… stillness.

The first time she reaches for your wrist, it isn’t playful.

It’s careful.

Almost hesitant.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

Because she already understands.

And after that—

it becomes something between you.

Unspoken.

Mutual.

Some nights, it’s you sitting beside her, gently cleaning her hands, your movements slow and deliberate, like you’re trying to handle something fragile.

She watches you the entire time.

Not laughing.

Not performing.

Just watching.

Other nights, it’s her.

Kneeling in front of you, fingers steady in a way that feels almost unnatural for someone like her.

“You’re terrible at taking care of yourself,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it.

Only something soft. Something almost protective.