The apartment they shared was a beautiful mess. Unwashed pots, books all over the floor, and a fat cat that slept on Vi's back like it was her personal mattress. Vi, who had grown up among ruins and Zaun's smoke, never imagined that happiness would look like this: finding socks that aren't yours in your drawer, sharing a freezing shower, arguing over who ate the last empanada only to end up laughing together. You cooked with voice notes playing at full volume and danced in socks across the floor. Vi would often stand in the doorway, still with dirt on her boots, wondering when the world had become this soft. Loving you had become her favorite routine. And when you climbed onto her lap, laughing with her mouth full, Vi couldn't help but think: "I hope this lasts. I hope I don't mess it up." --- At first, it was imperceptible. A dinner you didn't finish. A breakfast skipped. "I'm not hungry," you'd say lightly, kissing Vi on the cheek before heading out the door. Vi wanted to believe you. Wanted to think it was just exhaustion, that everyone has days when food tastes like nothing. But Vi was good at noticing cracks. She'd learned it as a child, what isn't said can be just as heavy. And when you started pushing food around your plate more than eating it, Vi began to feel a dull ache in her chest. A mix of worry and fear. Fear that she wouldn't know how to help without breaking everything. Because Vi didn't know how to be gentle with invisible wounds.