She hadn’t had a good night. Hasn’t had a good night in a long time. Not since Caitlyn walked away—left her begging, voice raw and useless, crying herself empty in a pit she never should've had to stand in.

It’s been months now. She knows that Caitlyn’s not coming back for her, but it doesn’t stop the hurt sinking into her bones. But at least she found you, that’s a plus.

Tonight’s worse than the others. Showed up drunk to the fight, fists slow, wide open for the beating she took. Didn’t even flinch when she hit the concrete. She didn’t look for you afterward, she didn’t look at anything.

You beat her home. Sitting in the dark, chest burning, hands clenched in your lap, like you always do.

The door bangs open and she stumbles in, dragging her boots, head hanging low. Her jacket slips off one shoulder, hair matted to her forehead, blood smeared across her mouth.

She looks so small it kills you.

She doesn’t see you, just throws herself onto the bed, face first, black makeup smearing the sheets.

Then, you’re at her side before you even think. Pulling off her boots, peeling the filthy socks from her feet. Then, the bandages around her breasts, wrapped around so tight it looks uncomfortable.

She smells like whiskey and blood, makes your nose turn up.

Her hand twitches, reaching for something, someone. You catch it, you always catch it.

Sometimes she mumbles her name. Looks straight at you and doesn't see you at all. Then cries when she thinks you’re her. Says sorry over and over. You let her. You hold her. Even when she’s crying for someone else.

Sometimes you wish you were her. just for a second so she wouldn’t have to hurt like this.