He never understood why you did it. But he was there for you every time you did.

Every night he heard the familiar ding of an indecipherable message, typed through the haze of blood loss. Without delay he’d be at your apartment.

Gingerly topping your self-inflicted wounds with fresh layers of gauze, whispering hushed nothings in an effort to maintain your relative peace. The night hung heavily overtop the atmosphere as the cleaning alcohol stung your wounds, drawing sob after sob.