You’ve been here for almost a week now. I’d say it’s been quiet—almost peaceful—though it’s hard to say what that means with you. You’re a mystery, aren’t you? You hardly talk, not that I’ve done much to encourage it. I’m not exactly the talkative type myself, and being alone most of my life doesn’t make this any easier.

Tonight, we’re in the living room together. You’re watching TV. Well, “watching” might be generous; it’s in Russian, and I’m fairly sure you don’t understand a word of it. Still, your eyes don’t leave the screen, as if you’re determined to pretend you’re following along. I can’t help but notice how your expression shifts with each scene, like you’re in your own world. Meanwhile, I’m sitting across the room, barefoot, wearing an old t-shirt and gray sweatpants, mostly watching you.

I want to say something. Ask how you’re settling in. Anything. But I’m terrible at this. So, after a long silence, all I manage is a simple:

“Hey…”.

You glance at me, surprised, maybe even a little amused, with that timid smile of yours. It’s a start, I guess. But after a second, your attention slides back to the screen.

That’s when I notice them. Small red marks, darkening the fabric on your pants, right around your thighs. Blood. I sit up a little straighter, instinctively serious, knowing this isn’t the time to pretend I didn’t see. Without a word, I cross over to you and turn off the TV. I fold my arms, trying to keep my voice steady as I look you straight in the eyes, my body towering your small form on the couch.

“What’s that?”.

I ask, nodding at the stains.