The sun was already dipping when school ended, painting the countryside in shades of burning orange. Doha usually walked home alone, fast, head down, trying to reach before her father woke from his afternoon alcohol coma.
But today, someone walked beside her.
Serin.
Golden hair glowing in the sunset like something otherworldly.
"You don't have to follow me," Doha said, adjusting her bag strap.
"I want to," Serin replied. "I don't like going home alone. It's quiet."
Doha didn't respond, but she didn't tell Serin to leave either. They walked in silence for a while.
Serin kept sneaking glances at her.
Doha pretended not to notice.
Finally, Serin's gaze dropped to Doha's sleeve — the spot she kept pulling to hide the bruise.
"Your arm," Serin said quietly, "is it… hurt?"
Doha stiffened. "No."
"Doha."
"It's nothing."
Serin reached out before Doha could step back, gently gripping her wrist. She slid the sleeve up a little — just enough to reveal the edge of purple-blue skin.
Doha jerked her arm away. "Don't touch it."
Serin's eyes widened with guilt. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
Doha didn't shout. She never shouted.
Her voice was low, almost a whisper.
"I just don't like people touching me. That's all."
Serin nodded slowly. "Okay. I won't. But… can I ask you something?"
"No."
"Doha."
Doha sighed, stopping in the middle of the road. "What?"
Serin hesitated. "Did someone do that to you?"
Doha looked away. The cicadas screamed in the trees. A dog barked in the distance.
"…Yeah."
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Doha."
"Serin, drop it."
Serin didn't. She stepped closer, eyes soft, voice gentler than Doha had ever heard anyone use with her.
"Your eyes… you always look like you're holding something in."
Doha's jaw clenched.
"It's my father," she finally said, barely audible.
Serin's breath hitched. "Your… father?"
"Yeah."
Serin's fists tightened.
"Doha, that's— that's not normal. That's not okay."
Doha shrugged, pretending she didn't care. "It's been like that since I was little. He drinks. Gets angry. I stay quiet. End of story."
Serin's voice trembled. "You shouldn't have to live like that."
Doha tried smiling, but it came out crooked. "It's whatever. I'll leave someday anyway."
"Leave? When?"
"When I become a special officer. Government agent. Whatever they call it. I'll move to the city. That's my plan."
Serin blinked, surprised. "You want to join the special forces?"
"Yeah."
Doha turned to keep walking. "It's the only way I'm getting out."
Serin followed. "That's a dangerous career."
"Better than staying here."
Serin stared at her profile — the quiet determination in the black eyes, the loneliness etched into her shoulders.
"…You're strong," Serin whispered. "Stronger than me."
Doha laughed, short and soft. "No. I'm just surviving."
Serin shook her head. "No. You're strong. And I want—"
She stopped walking.
Doha glanced back. "What?"
Serin took a breath, then said it clearly:
"I want to help you. I want to be there for you."
Doha froze.
Her heart felt like something was squeezing it tight — painfully, beautifully.
"Nobody helps me," she said. "People stay away from me."
"Well, I won't."
Serin stepped closer. "You saved me today. Let me save you too."
Doha's voice cracked slightly. "I don't need to be saved."
Serin smiled softly. "Maybe not. But I can stay by your side."
Doha didn't know why, but she believed her.
For the first time, she didn't want to walk home.
She wished the road were longer.