after the death of her mother, leighton's father sends her to a boarding school halfway across the world to be taught a lesson. she knows no one and no one knows her.
but the cherry on top is who her roommate is.
#2 in ptsdawareness
#2 in anxiety
#...
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Leighton's breathing slows against me, her body growing heavier with every minute that passes. I hold her tighter, afraid that if I let go, she'll slip away somehow, like this whole night could unravel and take her with it.
My mind's racing, replaying everything over and over—the letters, the panic, the way she sobbed in my arms like her heart was breaking into a thousand pieces.
I don't know how we ended up here, like this.
I should've known. I should've seen how much she was hurting.
But I didn't. And the thought that I could've lost her tonight... it makes me feel like I'm drowning.
I look down at her, her face pressed into my chest, and my heart twists painfully. She's asleep now, her breathing steady, soft, but I can still hear the echoes of her sobs, the broken way she kept apologizing like she was somehow at fault for feeling like this.
My grip on her tightens as I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing her in. I don't care if she's sorry.
She doesn't need to be. She's still here, and that's all that matters.
We're broken up. But I don't care.
I watch her for a while, afraid to close my eyes.
The room is dark, the only sound the soft hum of the night outside, but it feels too quiet after everything. My mind's still too loud, filled with everything I didn't say, everything I should've done. I don't know how to fix this—I don't even know if I can.
But I'll do whatever it takes to help her. To make sure she never feels like she's alone in this again.
Her hand is curled in the fabric of my shirt, holding on like she's afraid I'll leave.
I won't.
I won't ever leave her, not when she needs me like this.
I shift slightly, making sure she's comfortable, careful not to wake her.
I can feel her heart beating steadily against me now, the tension in her body starting to ease.
It's strange—how something so simple, like her falling asleep against me, can make me feel like I'm holding the most fragile thing in the world.
Like one wrong move could shatter her all over again.
I don't know how she's going to feel in the morning. I don't know if she'll still want me here, or if she'll push me away.
But for tonight, I'm not going anywhere.
The exhaustion hits me suddenly, like a wave, but I keep fighting it.
I keep watching her, my eyes tracing the lines of her face, the way her hair falls across her cheek.
