𝕮𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖊 𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘

Not Today | M.H.

[Fluff]

The weight of existing felt unbearable.

You couldn't pinpoint why. There was no single catastrophic event, no reason that should have dragged you under so violently. But it was there, pressing down on you, suffocating, curling heavy fingers around your ribs and squeezing until every breath felt like a battle.

Everything hurt. Not just your mind, but your body too—your limbs leaden, your skull thick with exhaustion, your chest aching like something inside you was trying to collapse in on itself. It was the kind of pain that smothered you into stillness, that made the mere thought of moving feel impossible.

And Maria—strong, steady, fiercely determined Maria—was trying so hard to help.

At first, it was gentle. She had woken before you, her warmth leaving your side for only a moment before she returned, pressing a kiss to your temple, voice low and quiet.

"Morning, sweetheart."

You barely moved. You weren't sure if you could.

Her fingers brushed through your hair, careful, as if she already sensed that something was wrong. "You're awake, aren't you?" A soft chuckle, trying to coax something out of you. "I know you are. You always make that little face when you're pretending to sleep."

Nothing.

Her hand slid down to your arm, fingers tracing the shape of your wrist before she gently took your hand in hers. "Talk to me," she murmured. "What's going on?"

You swallowed, but the words weren't there. Nothing was there. Just static, just exhaustion, just the deep, aching emptiness that had settled in your chest like a second heartbeat.

She exhaled softly, and for a moment, you thought she might let it go. But of course she didn't.

"Come on, babe," she said, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Let's sit up, just for a little bit. I'll make you some tea."

Still nothing.

She tried again.

"You don't have to do anything else, I promise. Just sit up. Just for a minute. It'll help."

The effort it would take to move felt insurmountable. It wasn't just physical exhaustion—it was everything. Like your body and mind had shut down completely, like the very idea of shifting even an inch would drain what little remained of your energy.

You couldn't.

Maria squeezed your hand, then let go, shifting beside you on the bed. "Alright," she said softly, though you could hear the worry creeping into her voice. "How about some music? Something soft?"

No response.

She was quiet for a beat, then tried again. "If I put on a movie, will you at least blink at me?"

Nothing.

A sigh, quiet and careful. Then the bed dipped as she stood, padding across the room. You heard the sound of a cabinet opening, the soft clink of glass, the familiar rattle of pills.

You should take them. You knew that. But even that felt too heavy.

Still, when Maria returned, she didn't push. She sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on your arm, the other offering the small, familiar dose of your meds. "Here," she murmured, voice even softer now. "Just this, at least. Please."

Something about the way she said it—so quiet, so careful—was what finally made you move. It was small, just a shift of your fingers, but it was enough. She pressed the pills into your palm, lifted the glass of water to your lips, watched as you swallowed them down.

She kissed your forehead. "There we go. That's my good girl."

And then she tried again.

"How about a shower?" she murmured, running her fingers along your arm. "Just for a minute. I'll wash your hair for you."

You stayed still.

"...Would it help if I carried you?" A hesitant, almost playful lilt to her voice, as if she already knew you wouldn't answer but was desperate to coax something out of you.

Still, nothing.

At some point, she fell quiet.

For a long time, she just sat there. Her fingers traced small circles over the back of your hand, her breathing even, measured. And then, slowly, she gave up. Not in a fine, be like that way. Not in frustration. No, it was softer than that—an acceptance, an understanding that today, you simply couldn't.

So instead of coaxing, she sighed, turned off the light, and crawled into bed beside you.

She didn't try to move you. Didn't try to force you into her arms. She just curled up next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her body against yours.

Her fingers found your hand again under the blankets, lacing them loosely with yours. A tiny squeeze.

No words. Just quiet, steady presence.

You could feel the tension in her, though. The way her breathing hitched, the way her fingers flexed slightly, like she wanted to do more but didn't know how.

She was overwhelmed. You knew that.

You hated that.

And maybe that was what did it—the guilt, the knowledge that this wasn't just hurting you, that it was hurting her too. Your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, your chest was heaving, silent, breathless sobs choking their way out of you.

Maria inhaled sharply. And then she was moving, shifting so she could wrap herself fully around you, her arms tight around your shoulders, one hand cradling the back of your head as you trembled in her grasp.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered. "I've got you. I've got you."

You buried your face against her collarbone, squeezing your eyes shut as if that might somehow make this go away. It didn't. The pain was still there, curling its claws around your ribs, pressing against your chest, making it impossible to breathe.

"I'm sorry," you choked. "I don't—I don't know why—"

She hushed you, her lips pressing against your hair. "Don't be sorry. Please don't be sorry."

But how could you not be?

You were ruining everything.

You were dragging her down with you.

You were—

"I love you," she murmured suddenly, fiercely.

It shattered you.

The sob that tore out of you was ugly, broken and raw, and Maria held you through all of it, whispering, "I love you, I love you," over and over again, like she could physically anchor you to her words.

You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve her.

But she was here anyway.

Holding you.

Loving you.

Refusing to let you drown.

Eventually, your sobs quieted. You weren't okay. You weren't even close to okay. But you were breathing. And Maria—your stubborn, endlessly patient, painfully loving Maria—was still there, her arms locked around you like she would never let go.

After a long moment, she shifted, just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. "You're okay," she whispered. "You're safe. And I'm so, so proud of you."

You let out a shaky breath, curling closer, pressing your damp face into her neck.

"I don't feel proud," you admitted, voice hoarse.

She kissed you again. "That's okay. I'll be proud enough for the both of us."

And somehow, despite everything, despite the crushing weight that had settled on your chest, you believed her.

Just for a moment.

And for now, that was enough.

<3