My life

Strawberries

MICAS POV

I didn't hear her come downstairs. 

But I knew she was awake. The sound of the shower earlier had been impossible to miss, and I'd felt the subtle shift in the house the moment she started moving around. It was strange how quickly my senses had attuned themselves to her how easily I noticed her presence even without seeing her. 

I was grateful more than I could put into words that I'd remembered to remove the razor blades when I woke up. The memory of the night before still sat heavy in my chest, like a bruise that hadn't faded yet. I hadn't slept much after she drifted off again. My mind had replayed every sound, every pause, every moment she'd been alone behind that bathroom door. 

So I cooked. 

Cooking gave my hands something to do when my thoughts threatened to spiral. I wanted her to have options. Choices. Not pressure never pressure but possibilities. Eggs, pancakes, fruit, toast, yogurt. Things that smelled warm and safe. Things that didn't demand she eat but quietly invited her to try. 

I was just finishing the last pancakes, flipping them carefully, when I felt it that awareness again. I turned around, spatula still in my hand, and there she was. 

For a second, I forgot how to breathe. 

She was wearing my clothes, and they swallowed her whole. The sleeves hung past her hands, the sweatpants bunching at her ankles. Anyone else might have looked ridiculous dressed like that. She didn't. She looked... heartbreakingly beautiful. Small. Fragile. Real. 

We would need to go shopping. I knew that. She deserved clothes that fit her, that belonged to her. But standing there, watching her hover uncertainly at the edge of the kitchen, I realized I didn't care what she wore not really. She could wear rags and still look like something precious the world had tried and failed to destroy. 

I forced myself to move, to finish setting the table so she wouldn't feel stared at. When I glanced up again, I saw her pull the plate of strawberries toward herself and start eating them. One after another. 

My chest tightened. 

I hoped that wasn't all she planned to eat. She needed more so much more. Her body had been deprived for far too long. Every instinct in me screamed to encourage her, to urge her to eat something else, but I stopped myself. The doctor's voice echoed in my head. Small portions. Let her body adjust. Don't overwhelm her. 

I watched carefully as she ate nearly the entire plate before slowing, her face paling slightly. She looked uncomfortable, like she'd gone too far without meaning to. A flicker of concern shot through me, but I reminded myself again this was normal. Even this was progress. 

After making my own plate, I sat across from her. I caught her looking at me a few times, quick glances followed by immediate avoidance. It wasn't fear exactly more like uncertainty. Like she was trying to figure out where I fit in her world now. 

I decided to talk. Silence could be just as intimidating as questions. 

I told her about today. About how I wanted her to meet my sister first. Not the whole family not yet. That would be too much, even for someone without her history. My sister was kind. Gentle. She would be safe. 

Then I mentioned going into town. Shopping. 

She asked if she had to go. 

That word had hit harder than it should have. I told her no immediately. No pressure. No obligation. But I gently explained that it might help to have clothes that actually fit her. Things that were hers. I hoped my sister might help convince her, not by pushing, but by making it feel less scary. 

I tried to shift the focus, asked her to tell me something about herself. Anything. Small. 

She shook her head. 

Not refusal. Not defiance. Just... not ready. Her gaze drifted away, and I could see her retreat inward, thoughts spiraling somewhere I couldn't reach yet. When she finally spoke, she told me to talk to the nurse instead. 

Understanding settled in quietly. 

She'd told the nurse things she wasn't ready to tell me. Things too heavy. Too raw. And that was okay. Trust didn't grow overnight, no matter what the bond said. 

I nodded, accepting the boundary without comment. 

Inside, though, something fierce and steady took root. I didn't need to know everything right now. I just needed to be consistent. Safe. Present. To prove over and over again that I wasn't going to disappear, explode, or turn cruel when things got hard. 

I watched her finish breakfast, listened to the quiet sounds of the house, and made another promise to myself. 

I would move at her pace. 
I would protect her choices. 
And one day when she was ready she would tell me her story in her own words.