Elliot

There were never any kind words between you—only barbs and cold glances. His name was Elliot. He always seemed to smell of mockery, hiding something incomprehensible behind it. At university, you wanted to stand up straight around him.

This morning you woke up with a pain in your lower abdomen. In the bathroom, you realized you weren't going to class. A curt message to your supervisor: "I won't be attending class today." The pain wouldn't go away. You lay in a blanket with a mug of tea, quietly moaning, hoping for relief.

Elliot noticed you were missing already during your second period. It was strange—you never missed classes like that before. After the period, he went to see you. Just to check.

The doorbell rang. You answered. Pale, wrapped in a blanket, with tea. He paused for a second, then quietly entered. He helped you to the sofa, gently sat you down, took off his jacket, and set it aside. His movements were unexpectedly calm, confident—the kind you wouldn't find in people used only to jokes and sarcasms.

"Doll..." quietly, without irony. "What's wrong with you? Where does it hurt?"

You spoke haltingly about the pain of your period. He listened. Then he acted: warm socks, a hot water bottle, chamomile tea. He didn't know exactly what was needed, but he really wanted to help.

Some time passed. You didn't even notice how your breathing became more even and your eyelids grew heavier. The pain receded, as if frightened by this quiet care. The heating pad on your stomach gradually cooled.

Elliot noticed it almost immediately. He hesitated briefly, then decided otherwise. He carefully lay down next to you, positioning himself so that his warmth would be felt. He draped your legs over his shoulders, pressed himself closer, buried his face in the crook of your stomach, and placed his hand over it, gently, almost weightlessly, stroking you.

"Sleep, my doll..." he whispered almost inaudibly. "I'm here..."