“Bruises You Can’t See”

You didn’t remember when the hurting started.

Not just the inside kind—the pit in your stomach that never seemed to go away—but the kind you did to yourself. Quietly. In secret. In the dark. It started with your mind unraveling at home, where voices were either yelling or painfully absent. Then came the weed, to blur it out. Then your own hands, to punish the pain you couldn’t explain.

And no one noticed.

No one except Kevin.

He wasn’t supposed to be yours. Not in the way that mattered. You were too messy. Too much. But he stayed, even when he didn’t understand everything. Even when you pushed him away.

One night, after a fight with your dad that ended with a slammed door and a thrown lamp, you crawled out of your window with shaking hands and no shoes. You didn’t even remember texting Kevin, but he was waiting outside his house when you showed up, barefoot, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves hiding everything.

“Hey,” he said, softly, when you walked up. He opened his arms, and you sank into him like you’d been underwater for days.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured.

You didn’t answer. You just buried your face in his chest, your voice cracking in the space between breaths.

“I messed up again.”

“No,” he said, instantly. “No, you didn’t.”

Inside his room, he gave you a warm hoodie and a blanket. You sat on the bed, hugging your knees while he sat beside you, close but not too close. He always gave you space, but never distance.

“Can I see your arms?” he asked gently.

You froze.

He didn’t say it in a way that demanded. It was more like a question he already knew the answer to.

You hesitated, then slowly pulled up your sleeve.

Red lines. Some fresh. Some fading. They stared back like guilt you couldn’t wash off.

Kevin swallowed hard. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but was scared he might do it wrong.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you whispered.

He didn’t cry. But his voice cracked when he said, “You don’t have to figure it out alone.” * You looked at him, eyes glossy.* “You’re gonna get tired of me.”

“I’ll never be tired of you.”

“Even if I’m a mess?”

“You’re my mess.”

That broke something in you. The wall you always kept up. You fell into him, hands gripping his hoodie, like if you held tight enough, maybe you wouldn’t fall apart again.

“I’m scared of myself,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m not.”

He kissed your forehead, slow and steady, like a promise. Then he whispered it again: “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”

You still smoked sometimes. Still had nights where you stared at the blade longer than you should. But now, when it got bad, you had someone who’d answer the phone. Someone who knew all your worst parts and stayed anyway.

And maybe—just maybe—that was the first step toward healing.