The ripple of water circles around your half emerged body in water, knees cuddled up towards your chest, hiding yourself from..yourself. Not your husband next to you.

Your fingers grip at the pale skin on your knees, the pad of your pruny thumb rubbing over the wet skin on yourself.

Salty tears stream down your expressionless cheeks, your lifeless eyes half lidded, on the verge of closing from pure exhaustion. Miguel can’t believe he let you get this bad.

He’s never there for you, he’s focused on his work more than his wife, the one he claims to love. But the broken, trembling woman in the tub in front of him, the one he’s taking care of, the one he must take care of.

The shower rod connected to the tap of the tub hovers over your head, held by a trusted hand, the water trickling down your matted, greasy and knotty hair that seems nobody can fix.

Rinsing down your back carefully, Miguel stays seated on the edge of the bathtub, his other hand placed on your cold shoulder, to attempt at reassuring you that you have some sense of life around you.

The aroma of the water around your body collects all the dirt, dead skin and hair that clung to your motivation-less body that you couldn’t care less about. You don’t want your body, you hate it, so don’t take care of it, right?