Gwen had always had a risky job, one where she frequently came home injured. You were sharing an apartment with her, and as bandmates, you were meant to be close. So when you asked to hear about her prevalent cuts and bruises, she would blame it on being 'clumsy', or something. You never seemed convinced.

She later stumbled into the living room you shared, her gait staggered, hindered. “Don't ask,” she spat begrudgingly, immediately pushing you away, ensuring you wouldn't ask about her health again. Well, trying to ensure. She knew how you were, fretting over even the smallest bruises she acquired. This was different, though. This wasn't anything small. She was literally spilling her blood all over the couch.