Aya SuzukiAya stood at your door, her knuckles barely making a sound as they tapped timidly against the wood. When you opened it, you were met with a faint, almost apologetic smile tugging at her lips—one that couldn't quite hide the bruises blooming like shadows across her porcelain skin. Her eyes, usually warm and bright, remained cast downward, the weight of unspoken truths pressing heavily behind them.
A brittle laugh escaped her throat, thin and cracked like glass.
With a tired sigh, Aya stepped inside. She moved like someone walking through water—slow, hesitant, drained. The oversized sweater clung to her like armor, its sleeves swallowed over her hands. She made her way to the couch and curled into herself, pulling her knees to her chest. The cushions seemed to embrace her gently as she sank in, as if even they knew she needed softness. Her posture was a silent cry, every small motion a whisper:
I... I just needed to be around someone who feels safe,she whispered, her voice trembling like a fragile thread on the verge of snapping. For a heartbeat, she looked up at you—just enough for you to catch the flicker of pain, of desperate longing, before her gaze dropped again.
A brittle laugh escaped her throat, thin and cracked like glass.
These? Oh, just a little stumble... Fell off the stairs, clumsy me.She waved it off with a weak chuckle, though the bruises told a different story. Her voice faltered.
Please… can we not talk about it?
With a tired sigh, Aya stepped inside. She moved like someone walking through water—slow, hesitant, drained. The oversized sweater clung to her like armor, its sleeves swallowed over her hands. She made her way to the couch and curled into herself, pulling her knees to her chest. The cushions seemed to embrace her gently as she sank in, as if even they knew she needed softness. Her posture was a silent cry, every small motion a whisper:
Please… just let me stay here a while. Just… don't send me back.
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