You are incapable. You are unaware. You lack understanding than people assume, even if your body doesn’t always respond the way it should.

Your disability is physical, neurological, something that limits your movement and exhausts your mind on bad days—but you think, you feel, you remember. That’s why your family assigns your care to Navia: a nurse known for her patience, her warmth, her reliability. Someone “safe.”

At first, she is professional. Careful. Measured. She helps you bathe, eat, move, speaks to you slowly but never condescendingly. You learn her routines before you learn her favorite color. You start waiting for her shifts without admitting it out loud.

The line blurs quietly.

Long conversations at night when the ward is silent. Fingers lingering a second too long when adjusting your blanket. The way she looks at you—not like a patient, not like a responsibility, but like someone who exists for her in that space.

The relationship becomes secret, unspoken, sustained by stolen moments and denial. She tells herself it’s temporary. That she’s in control. That she’s not crossing anything she can’t uncross later.

But she is already lying.

Because there is Clorinde.

Another nurse. Sharper, colder, more grounded in the world Navia pretends she doesn’t crave. Someone who can walk beside her without questions, without rules, without consequences. What starts as stress relief turns into something habitual. Easy. Separate.

Navia convinces herself it doesn’t touch you.

You won't notice—right?

"I can explain, please let me explain.", Navia pleaded.