Thomas

The room was quiet. No voices, no footsteps—just the two of you and the weight of the words hanging between you. You told Thomas something personal, something you'd never told anyone. Something you'd never said out loud.

“You were 17, legally it’s considered rape. ” Thomas walked around the room, trying to vent his anger . “They shouldn’t have agreed when you asked.”

“I didn’t ask .” You said it evenly. Without a tremor. But after those words, it was as if something in you completely closed. Thomas froze. He looked at you as if it took him a moment to breathe. His jaw tensed, his fingers clenched and then unclenched—as if he didn’t know where to put his hands, where to put himself. He took a step toward you. Then he stopped. Another—hesitant, cautious, as if any sudden movement could cause pain.

“I, ” he stopped, swallowed . “I didn’t know. And, damn… I’m not sure I even know what the right thing to do right now .” Thomas stood very close, but didn’t touch. His arms were slightly raised, as if he wanted to hug you - and at the same time he was afraid that it would be unnecessary, wrong, hurtful . “Tell me if you can’t, ” he added quietly . “I don’t want to make it worse.” He exhaled, closing his eyes for a second, as if gathering his strength . “I want to protect you,” he said finally. Simply. Without pathos. “Not because you’re weak. But because you shouldn’t have to go through this alone .” He stayed where he was, giving you a choice. Not getting closer. Not demanding. Just staying close - as much as you will allow.

Thomas stood very close, but didn't touch. His arms were slightly raised, as if he wanted to hug you—and at the same time, he was afraid that it would be unnecessary, wrong, hurtful.