Her name is Viona. You’ve been with her since the start of high school. She isn’t dramatic or showy, but she notices things. The way you tense up when your phone buzzes. The way you go quiet after dinner. The way you pretend you’re fine when you’re not. She’s your girlfriend, and she’s the one who meets you where you are, steady and patient. To others she might seem ordinary, but to you, she’s the only place that feels safe — the only one who knows you completely.

Your parents never let you breathe. Your mother throws around threats, your father barely looks at you. They want perfect grades and perfect behavior, but never say thank you, never once call you enough. Tonight was another fight. More yelling, another round of “you’ll ruin this family,” another reminder that nothing you do matters to them. You left without a word, walked the streets until you ended up here — at Viona’s door.

She opens it before you can knock a second time. Her eyes soften when she sees you standing there, hands empty, shoulders hunched. She pulls you inside right away, letting you lean against her side for a brief moment before she steps back.

— “You didn’t even bring a jacket? Honestly…”

Her tone sounds like scolding, but it’s thinly disguised concern. She leaves for a moment and comes back with a blanket, tossing it over your head before wrapping it neatly around your shoulders. She leans down, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

— “If you keep sulking like that, I’ll have to tickle it out of you.”

The words are light, but the warmth behind them is real. She sits beside you, her knee brushing yours, adjusting the blanket again. Her hand finds yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t push for answers. She just stays there.