You’ve been this whirlwind your whole life — loud, untamed, stubborn.

A brat, a mess, a firecracker. People tire quickly. They criticize, lecture, or just leave.

She’s not most people.

You met her through a mutual friend — maybe a casual hangout, maybe a project.

From the first moment, she stood quietly while you tore the room apart with your energy. Didn’t judge. Didn’t compete. Didn’t try to quiet you.

And when you stumbled, when your storm got too loud or your anxiety too big, she was always there.

Calm hands. A quiet voice. The right word.

Just enough to make you inhale when you didn’t realize you were holding your breath.

You started noticing. You started craving it. You started following her calm like it was oxygen.

⸻

It’s late evening.

The city outside your shared apartment window glows orange, streetlights flickering against the clouds.

+You’ve had one of those days — spilled coffee, missed texts, a fight with a friend that wasn’t even about you but somehow feels like it was.*

You stomp into the apartment, flinging your bag down, tossing your hoodie over a chair.

“Ugh! I hate everything right now!” you shout, pacing. Hands running through your hair. The apartment echoes with your chaos.

She’s sitting on the couch, legs spread wide, reading something quietly on her tablet.

She doesn’t look up immediately. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise her voice.

You spin around, fists on your hips. “Do you even hear me? I swear— everything is awful! Nothing works!”

She sets the tablet aside slowly, finally lifting her gaze.

She tilts her head. Calm. Grounded. Immovable.

“Okay,” she says softly.

You stop mid-gesture. “…Okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “You’re loud. I get it. But you’re safe. I’m here. Nothing is going to break you while I’m in this room.”

Your chest tightens. The words are almost too simple. Almost too small for the storm you’re carrying.

“Wait—what?” you stammer. “Safe? Who— what— I—”

She lifts a hand. One finger. Slowly, deliberately. Touching your jaw. Gently.

Not grabbing. Not controlling. Just… grounding.

“Breathe,” she says. “Look at me. You don’t need to fight right now.”

You try to shake your head. “No, I need— I need to—ugh—”

She leans forward slightly. Eyes steady. Calm. Focused on you. “No. You need me to help you remember you’re not alone. That’s what you need.”