The Weight of His Smile

Jay learned early that mirrors could lie.

At nineteen, he had the kind of face teachers trusted and strangers forgot. Soft brown hair that fell into his eyes like it was trying to protect him. Hands always tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie, as if he were rehearsing an apology no one had asked for.

His boyfriend, Adrian, was twenty two and moved through rooms like gravity owed him rent.

Adrian had a smile that could melt a jury. Sharp jaw, sharper words. He liked to hold Jay's chin between two fingers when he was annoyed. Not hard enough to leave a mark. Just enough to remind him.

"You're too sensitive," Adrian would say, voice silk over steel.
"You make me like this."

Jay believed him. That was the problem.

-- Please do not read if you can't handle Panic attacks, rape , self harm, ...