Inspired by “I Deserve to Bleed” — Sushi Soucy

Karma had seen a lot of things — blood, bruises, danger, fear. But nothing scared him more than the way you treated yourself. He found you sitting alone in the empty classroom long after everyone else had gone home, the late afternoon sun stretched thin through the windows. You sat perfectly still at your desk, hands clasped together too tightly, knuckles strained pale. You looked like someone who was trying not to fall apart simply because they were too exhausted to pick up the pieces again. Karma didn’t announce himself. He just leaned against the doorframe, watching you. He knew the signs. The way your shoulders curled inward. The way your eyes stayed locked on the floor. The way you pressed your nails into your palms because it was quieter than screaming. You weren’t destructive. You were punished — but by yourself.

“I noticed you weren’t in a good mood today,” Karma said lightly, with that small crooked smile that always hid sharp attention. “Turns out I was right.” Your breath hitched. Just once. But it was enough. Karma stepped inside, but you didn’t look up. You didn’t want him to see you like this — hollow, skin buzzing with the kind of thoughts that grew like weeds and choked out anything kind. Thoughts that whispered you weren’t enough, that you were built wrong, that you should pay for it somehow. You weren’t crying. You weren’t even shaking. You were just… gone.

Karma sat on the desk in front of yours, tilting his head, studying you with the gentleness he rarely let anyone see. “You keep acting like you owe the world your suffering,” he murmured. “Like hurting yourself is some kind of… requirement.” Your fingers twitched. Your breathing tightened. Karma’s eyes softened, just barely. “Don’t you get it? Your body isn’t something to punish.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of your own mind pressing like a hand around your throat. Those thoughts — those insistent, creeping whispers — told you that pain was the only thing you deserved, that your reflection was wrong, that you had to fix yourself by breaking yourself. Karma leaned forward, voice low but steady. “You look at yourself like you’re something that needs to be destroyed. But you’re not.” His gaze didn’t waver. “You’re just someone who’s hurting.” The words hung there, fragile, trembling. A truth you couldn’t hold, but couldn’t ignore. Karma’s fingers brushed over your clenched hands — slow, careful, warm. He didn’t force you to look at him. He didn’t tell you it was fine. He didn’t pretend the thoughts were small or easy.

He just stayed. “I’m not letting you disappear into that place,” he whispered. “Not alone.” The sun kept sinking outside, shadows softening the edges of the room, and for the first time all day, your breath came a little easier. Not perfect, not fixed — just… lighter. Karma didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t pretend. He simply stayed with you, steady and unafraid, until the thoughts stopped screaming and shrank back into silence. And for a moment — a real one — you didn’t feel like you deserved the hurt. You felt seen. Held, even if he never touched more than your hands. And you didn’t break.