"And maybe. . . just maybe I didn't want to be alone with that feeling tonight," I whispered slow and soft, like if I were to be a little less fragile I might just end up breaking a glass too hard on him.
This was supposed to be the part where I left.
That's what people do, right?
They walk away from strangers with razors and ruined postures.
They don't sit down next to them. They don't always so desperately try making them stay on a stranded lifeless street, in a pharmacy that barely had lights in it or even around.
But I had already broken that rule.
So I made up a new one.
His bleeding hadn't stopped.
Not entirely.
These knuckles were bruised, blood smeared all over his hands and chest. I don't even know how the blood went up to his chest. Looking over at him closely I also noticed some smears near his neck which his dark hoodie covered very well but his light coloured shirt gave away.
He hadn't asked for help.
Hadn't even looked at me.
But I moved anyway.
Looking up at his face I saw his lips were torn too. Blood slumped around the corners and a cut formed quite resiliently in the lower lip of his.
Zane's confused voice caught me off guard, "What are you doing?" He turned his head away and gruffed, "Why are you still here?"
Without answering him I asked, "Can I trust you to not leave if I go for a minute?"
"I want you to leave."
"That's not what I asked."
"Why are you making this so damn hard for me?" He grutted.
"Just answer my question will you?"
He didn't move. His head stayed stubbornly turned away, as if facing me was too much. The flickering emergency lights cast jittery shadows that danced across the cracked floor tiles, bathing us in an eerie, broken light.
The air felt thick, heavy with silence — and maybe something else, something raw and aching.
My fingers grazed the damp fabric of my dress, the glitter still clinging faintly, now smudged and ruined. The coolness of the cloth seeped into my skin as I gripped the hem, hesitating for only a heartbeat before I pulled hard. The tear was sharp and sudden, the sound slicing through the stillness like a raw wound opening.
Zane flinched at the sound, a flicker of awareness flashing in his wild eyes. His lips, still cracked and bleeding, parted slightly. He let out a harsh breath, like air forced through a broken pipe.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was rough, ragged — like he'd been shouting at silence for hours.
Without answering, I tore off another strip, my hands trembling but steady as I knelt closer, careful not to invade his space too much. The smell of blood, alcohol, and something deeper — despair perhaps — was wrapped tight all around us.
"No more pretending you're fine. Let me deal with this." I said quietly, my voice softer now, but firm.
He scoffed, bitter. "Why? So you can watch me bleed out?" His jaw clenched hard, fists tightening until his knuckles blanched beneath the shards of glass.
"Because if I don't, no one else will. At least for now." I pressed the fabric gently to his open wounds, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the cold cloth. "You don't have to do this. Not here. Not now."
Zane's breath hitched, and for a moment, his façade cracked. His eyes, fierce and wild, flickered with something I wasn't sure I was ready to name — maybe fear, maybe hope.
"Think you can fix me?" His voice was almost a growl, laced with bitter sarcasm.
"No," I said, my fingers wrapping the cloth around his wrist carefully but with purpose. "But I believe if I try enough I can stop you from falling apart tonight." He flinched when I lightly graced his already too-bruised skin.
He was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted, letting his arm relax just a little.
The storm outside raged on, but in that broken pharmacy aisle, a fragile thread of something like connection stretched between us — jagged, trembling, but real.
While I was working my way in wrapping his bruised knuckles he kept on looking at me. The warmth beneath the coldness of his knuckles nipped me softly beneath my hands.
In the silent darkness, his lifeless bloodshot eyes observed my work in a silent yet vicious way, letting his guard just enough to yet have time to notice if I was invading too much of his world. Getting too close than what he might presume safe.
But I felt something. Like the tiniest bit of crack on some hard-worn armour, he had proclaimed all around him.
Then the sudden softness in his voice blindsided me. ". . .Are you trying to fix or bury me exactly?"
I paused, fingers trembling over the torn fabric of his sleeve, when his voice sliced through the thick silence again. "Cause I can't tell the difference right now."
His eyes were oceanically blue. As if his eyes were fervently soaked in melancholy, like two shirked sapphire jewels lost in some profound gloom.
Even his lashes were weirdly carved to beautifully adore his brilliant pair of eyes with every flutter.
Every blink.
And I couldn't help but notice how his lashes cast shadows subtly under his eyes, with a subtle quiver when he blinked.
His bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes flickering with pain, suspicion, but a tiny flicker of something else too— perhaps hope?
"I don't think this is about fixing or burying. It's rather about allowing yourself to lift away from whatever baggage you've been carrying without shame or guilt— and I want you to do this together with me."
Sometimes the line between fixing and burying is way too thin, Zane. I wish I had known it then as loud as I do now.
"Why would you care? Who even are you?" His voice cracked through the silence, low and frayed. "You don't even know me."
There was a faint growl beneath it — not anger, just a raw edge dulled by exhaustion.
I didn't flinch.
"Because no one should have to carry this weight alone," I said softly. "Not even you. Sometimes it's not about knowing someone. It's just about helping them survive when they no longer remember how to. Isn't that what humanity is?"
His breath hitched.
One of his hands twitched faintly in his lap, then stilled again. His eyes fell shut for a moment as if the silence itself weighed too much.
The air was cold, heavy with antiseptic and broken glass, but for some reason, the faint smell of fabric softener from my dress lingered between us — absurdly gentle in contrast.
Then I saw it — a shallow cut just below the collarbone. A piece of glass was still embedded in his skin, glittering faintly beneath the dim red lights.
I froze. Not in fear — just. . . a little taken aback.
"Can I?" I asked, my voice low.
He opened his eyes slowly, unsure. I gestured toward the wound. "Your hoodie. . .Can you unzip it a little?"
His brow furrowed. A flicker of resistance rose up behind his eyes. "...Why?"
I exhaled, tired but steady. "Relax. I'm not a perv. There's glass stuck in your chest. I just want to clean it."
Before he could respond, the question slipped out before I could stop it — raw and real.
"How on earth did it even end up there?"
I reached for the hem of my dress — already torn in places — and again shredded a cleaner strip with my fingers.
And I neared to him. Close enough to see how the red emergency light from above got caught in the bruising just under his collarbone.
He tensed when my fingers neared him.
He murmured, "You don't have to do this." After a pause, he continued, "I'm not some charity project you patch up before walking away."
The blood was thinning down at the pressure of the cloth. He flinched a tad when the glass came out. "Cool. Cause I'm not here to just walk away." Glancing at him to see if he was alright I pressed onto it with another piece of the fabric I had torn off from my dress.
"You got lucky that this is not too deep," I said, as I softly pressed against the wound.
He didn't respond. Just an extremely exhausted sigh. But then he muttered, "Too bad," right under his breath.
I froze. Just for a second.
My hand was still on his skin, the fabric still half-folded between my fingers. That wasn't meant for me—but I'd heard it anyway.
His words— they slipped out of him so naturally and unguardedly — like he didn't care if I heard.
But I did.
And they lodged themselves somewhere deep in my chest, heavy and cold.
I didn't retort back with anything at first. Just kept my hand where it was, gently pressing the gauze. I didn't want to admit how much those two words shook me.
"Don't say that," I said quietly. No rebuking. Just. . . scared. Terrified of what worse he might do to himself if I got mad at him too.
As my hand graced his skin accidentally while fixing the edge of his wound which still had some blood on it, I unexpectedly brushed past an intense scar on him which was quite deep, and it ran long down his torso.
It looked old and was definitely not caused by some broken vodka glass shards.
When he noticed me and what I had discovered his hands trembled as he pulled his hoodie tighter, zipping it up again. As if he were trying to shield himself again.
As I finished, I pulled his sleeves down, being as gentle as I possibly could be, almost trying to tuck him into the utmost comfort so he gets to break free from the dark demons who keep hounding him aloud.
"Right." I patted his arm twice, and looking back at him I met his ocean-blue eyes as I continued, "Next time I'll stab you ten times deeper. Got it?"
For a second, his face didn't move — not in the usual stiff, unreadable way, but like he was holding something in.
Then it happened.
The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A flicker of something that could've been a smile if you looked hard enough and didn't blink.
It was gone as fast as it came, like he didn't mean for it to escape at all.
I didn't say anything.
Just went back to pressing the gauze over his skin, pretending not to have seen it.
But I had. And for some reason, it stayed with me.