blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale

{29} down bad

Taylor's POV:

I'm home, but nothing feels like home anymore. The apartment feels hollow, too still, as though waiting for something to come crashing down. Every hour that passes, I'm half-expecting the worst: a phone call, a knock at the door, some proof that Maya told our secret to the police, that the world is about to tear us apart. It's like living with a clock ticking in my ears, counting down to a fate I can't escape.

Aurora comes by every day, though. After school, she shows up, trying to look strong, trying to make everything seem normal even though we both know it isn't. She lets herself in, drops her backpack, and immediately scans the room to check on me. She'll sigh if I'm not on the couch resting, gently scolding, pushing me to sit down and not push myself too far.

"You should be resting, Taylor," she says one afternoon, her voice soft but insistent. "You'll never get better if you keep pushing it."

I want to argue, to say something about how I can't just sit still and wait, but I'm too tired to fight her on it. Instead, I sink back onto the couch, trying not to wince as the ache in my side flares up. She comes closer, her fingers brushing against mine for just a second before she pulls back, cautious, careful—as though she's afraid touching me could break something even more fragile than my body.

"Thanks, Aurora," I murmur, the words feeling too small. I want to say so much more, to tell her how grateful I am that she's here, that she's still with me despite everything, but the weight of fear makes it hard to find the right words.

She sits beside me, pulling her legs up onto the couch and curling them beneath her. She takes a deep breath, looking around the room, her gaze lingering on the drawn curtains, the dim light. "I hate this," she says finally, her voice trembling. "I hate that we have to hide like this. That we're living in fear because of—" She trails off, her hands clenching into fists, her jaw tightening. I know she's thinking of Maya, of the betrayal, of the threat hanging over us.

I reach out, putting a hand on her arm. "We'll get through it. We just have to keep going, stay calm... keep quiet," I assure, though I can feel the doubt on my tongue.

I know how empty the words sound. Each day, the tension grows, winding tighter around us. I can see it wearing her down too—the circles under her eyes, the way she's more jumpy than usual. And I hate that she has to be the strong one, that she's trying to take care of me when I should be taking care of her.

A few minutes of silence pass before Aurora slowly lifts my shirt, checking on the bandages. "I think those could use a change," she states and I nod absentmindedly, letting the girl lead me to the bathroom.

Her fingers are deft and careful as she unrolls the fresh bandages. I try not to flinch, try not to focus on the raw, stinging feeling as she peels away the old, blood-streaked gauze. Her face is serious, focused, her brows slightly furrowed in concentration, and for a second, I can't help but marvel at how steady her hands are.

"Does it hurt?" she asks softly, glancing up at me, her gaze filled with worry and tenderness.

I shake my head, though it's not exactly the truth. "No, it's... it's fine."

Her lips press into a thin line, clearly unconvinced. "Taylor, you don't have to pretend. It's okay if it hurts."

I swallow hard, the honesty in her voice making it harder to keep the mask in place. "A little," I admit quietly. "But it's nothing I can't handle."

She gives me a small, understanding smile and then reaches for the antiseptic. Her hands are so gentle as she dabs the wound, and I can't help but notice how her eyes soften as she works. It's like she's treating something precious, something breakable, and for a moment, the vulnerability of it all crashes over me.