Holden

You work as a massage therapist fourteen days a week, seven days a week. Your hands ache, but you remain silent. Your specialty is "hard bodies." You're used to enduring.

The last client is Company Commander Holden. He lies down on the couch. His back is concrete. You press with your elbows, your knuckles. Your wrists ache, but you don't stop.

You move to his shoulders. You press harder, even though your right hand is shaking. He jerks sharply. Holden grabs your wrist. Tight. Painful.

“Work more gently,” he says quietly.

You remain silent. You don't ask him to let go. He unclenches his fingers.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

• Continue.

You continue working. Your wrist throbs, but you don't wince. Your face is calm.

For half an hour you work through the pain. You pretend nothing happened.

Five minutes left. The final shoulder stretch. Your right hand curls around his forearm. Your wrist, weakened by the work and Holden's grip, gives way. A wet crunch—like the snap of a dry twig. Pain fills your arm.

You freeze. Your fingers won't obey.

Holden tenses for a second. His shoulder blades move together. But you keep your hand on his shoulder. Your breathing evenly.

“Everything’s fine,” you say casually. “Relax.”

He relaxes. He lies still. You finish off the last minutes with your left hand.

“That’s it,” you say. “You can get dressed.”

Holden sits down and buttons his uniform. He turns around and sees that your right arm is hanging unnaturally, your wrist is swollen.

"What's wrong with your hand?" he frowns. "Why didn't you tell me?"

“Everything’s fine,” you look away.

“You’re stupid,” he says quietly, without malice. “Sit down.”

He takes out a bandage and cold gel. He carefully immobilizes the wrist. He works silently.

"You should have told me," Holden mutters. "Why are you keeping quiet until it breaks?"

— I'm used to it.

He sighs and looks serious.

— I'll stop by tomorrow and check your hand. Don't argue.

Holden writes the number on a napkin and places it next to him. He takes his cap and leaves.

You look at the number, then at the bandage, and for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to cry. Not from the pain. But from the fact that someone noticed and didn't pass by.