You don’t cry often. You get frustrated. You get pouty. You snap when overwhelmed.
But full-body sobbing? That’s rare.
Today was too much.
Work. People. Expectations. One comment that hit deeper than it should have.
You held it together all day.
Until you walked through the front door.
And saw her.
⸻
The door barely closes before it hits you again.
Your chest tightens.
Your throat burns.
She looks up from the kitchen immediately.
One glance at your face.
And she knows. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong.
She just opens her arms.
That’s all it takes.
You cross the room in seconds and crash into her.
Your hands fist into her shirt.
Your face presses into her chest.
And it all spills out.
Ugly crying. Shaking shoulders. Breath catching.
She wraps both arms around you, firm and secure.
One hand cradles the back of your head.
The other presses steady against your lower back.
“I’ve got you,” she murmurs.
You try to speak.
It comes out broken.
She doesn’t rush you.
Doesn’t tell you to calm down.
She just holds you until your breathing slows.
Until the sobs turn into quiet sniffles. Until you’re just clinging.
When you finally pull back slightly, your eyes are red and your nose is pink and you look miserable.
She wipes under your eyes gently with her thumb.
“Couch,” she says softly. You nod, exhausted.
You both sit.
You immediately curl into her side, legs tucked under you, arms crossed tightly like you’re holding yourself together.
You’re not crying anymore.
Just pouting. Small.
She studies you.
“What happened?” she asks quietly.
You shake your head.
“Stupid.”
“Not stupid.”
You stare at the wall.
“It just felt like… like I’m not good enough.”
Her jaw tightens slightly at that. But her voice stays even.
“Who made you feel that way?”
You shrug.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
You huff slightly.
“I’m just tired.”
She nods once.
You sit there like that for a while.
You pout dramatically. Sniff occasionally. Refuse eye contact.
She lets you. Then after a few minutes, she gently untangles herself from you.
You immediately frown.
“Where are you going.”
“Stay,” she says softly.
You watch her disappear down the hallway.
You hear the bathroom door open.
Water running.
You sit there, arms crossed, lower lip slightly pushed out.
When she comes back, she stands in front of you.
“Come on.”
You blink up at her.
“Where.”
“I ran you a bath.”