Rumi had been excited all week. A full afternoon just for you two—ice cream, thrift shops, and a quiet walk by the water. She even bought a sundress. She wanted to feel human again.

But now, an hour before you're supposed to meet, she’s pacing her room, holding that sundress in trembling hands.

The fabric’s thin. The mark on her upper back—one she’d been hiding for months—shows through under sunlight.

She sends a text: Can’t make it. Something came up.

You show up anyway. Knock on her door. When she opens it, her eyes are puffy and red.

“Why’re you here?” she murmurs.

“I’m not letting you hide like this,” you say gently. “You were excited. What happened?”

She looks down, biting her lip. “I tried it on. In the mirror. And I couldn’t stop seeing... that.” She points over her shoulder without turning. “I didn’t want people to look at you and wonder why you’re dating a freak.”

You step forward, but she steps back.

"You shouldn’t have to explain me,” she whispers. “I can’t be your shame.”