HE WAS “BORING” UNTIL YOU SAW WHAT HIS HANDS WERE HIDING

You sit on the edge of the bed with your makeup still sharp enough to cut glass, staring at the glowing screen of your phone like it owes you an apology. The stories from your friends keep popping up, neon lights, clinking glasses, lips close to someone’s ear, the kind of laughter that looks expensive. Your dress feels like a promise you made to yourself. And then the promise starts to feel foolish.

The apartment smells like your perfume and his exhaustion, both fighting for control of the room. You can still hear the tiny, tired sound of his breathing, the soft snore that slipped out like his body finally dropped the act. Marcos is there beside you, half dressed, one boot still on, as if he fell asleep mid-sentence. It’s not romantic the way movies sell it. It’s raw, inconvenient, and painfully real.

Your first instinct is heat. Not the sexy kind, the angry kind, the kind that climbs up your neck and makes your ears ring. You’re young, you tell yourself, and youth is supposed to be loud. Youth is supposed to taste like tequila and bass and lipstick on the rim of a glass.

But then you look at his hands.

Not the idea of his hands, not “hands” as a cute detail. His actual hands, palms rough like sandpaper, knuckles scraped, fingertips cracked from dust and sun and whatever job doesn’t care if you bleed a little. You watch them resting there like they’re finally allowed to be useless for a minute. And something inside you shifts, like a door you didn’t know was locked quietly opening.

You remember Tuesday. You remember the way you whispered, almost ashamed, “I’m scared we’ll never stop paying rent.” You remember him not flinching, not joking, not changing the subject. You remember him saying, “I got you, flaca. Just trust me,” like it wasn’t a line, like it was a contract.

The rage in you doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It turns into a tight ache behind your ribs.

So you don’t shake him. You don’t yell. You kneel and slide the other boot off his foot like you’re disarming a weapon. You pull the blanket up, you wipe a smear of dust from his temple, and you realize you’ve never really watched someone fight for you before. Not with roses. With blisters.

You take off your earrings in the bathroom, slow and quiet, and when you come back you don’t feel like a girl who got stood up. You feel like a witness.

And witnesses don’t forget what they saw.

The next morning, sunlight pours through the cheap blinds like it’s trying to make the apartment look less tired than it is. Marcos wakes up with panic in his eyes, like he’s afraid you’ll already be gone. His voice comes out scratchy when he says your name, and you can tell he’s bracing for impact.

You could choose to make him pay. You could choose the dramatic route, the one your friends would replay for weeks like a juicy clip. You could throw the dress at him, point at the clock, list every moment you’ve swallowed disappointment like medicine. You could do all of that and it would even be justified.

Instead, you do something that surprises you.

You take his hands.

You turn them over like you’re reading a map. He tries to pull away at first, embarrassed, because men like him are trained to hide damage like it’s weakness. But you hold on gently, firmly, and you trace the small cuts, the dry skin, the calluses that look like time hardened into layers. Marcos watches you like he doesn’t know what kind of sentence this is going to be.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and the words taste strange because you’re not used to apologizing for feelings. “I almost… I almost forgot what this costs you.”

His jaw flexes, and for a second you think he’s going to dismiss it. He’s good at dismissing, good at making things smaller so you don’t worry. But then his shoulders drop in a way that isn’t defeat, it’s relief. Like someone finally saw him.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he murmurs. “I swear I didn’t.”

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s the problem.”

He frowns. “Problem?”

“You shouldn’t have to be this tired,” you say, and it comes out sharper than you intended. “You shouldn’t have to grind yourself into dust just to keep us afloat.”

Marcos looks away, and the movement is familiar. It’s the look of a man swallowing words because he thinks words won’t help. Then he says, “It’s temporary,” like he’s reciting a prayer. “Just a little longer.”

That’s when you notice it. Not his hands this time, but the way his eyes flick toward the corner of the room where his backpack sits. He’s careful about that backpack. He doesn’t toss it around. He doesn’t leave it open.

A tiny red flag waves in your mind.

You don’t accuse. You don’t jump. You just file it away, like a detective in a love story that doesn’t want to admit it’s becoming one.

You make breakfast, and he eats like someone who forgot what warm food tastes like. He keeps saying “we’ll go out tonight” and “I’ll make it up to you” and “I got you,” and you nod, but your heart doesn’t settle. Because you’ve heard “soon” before, and soon can be a liar.

After he leaves, you stand by the window and watch him walk to the truck. He moves slower in daylight, like the sun exposes how much he hurts. He opens the driver’s door, pauses, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small. A folded piece of paper. He checks it quickly, then shoves it back like it burns.

Your curiosity wakes up fully.

And curiosity, once awake, does not go back to sleep.

That evening, your friend Valeria sends a voice note that starts with laughter and ends with judgment.

“Girl, I swear, if my man did that to me, I’d be gone,” she says, her voice syrupy with the kind of confidence that comes from not living your life. “You can’t be wasting your twenties. Life is short. Come out tonight. There’s this new spot and the DJ is actually good, and we’re bringing the boys.”

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the reply, and you feel two worlds pulling on you like a tug-of-war rope. One world is bright, loud, fast, the world where love is a photo and happiness is proof you can post. The other world is your apartment, the chipped sink, the rent, Marcos’s hands, the kind of love that doesn’t show up pretty.

You almost type, Maybe later.

But then you remember the paper he checked. The way he looked at the backpack. The way he said “temporary” like he was begging you to believe in something you couldn’t see.

So you type, Can’t. I’m busy.

Valeria sends a laughing emoji like you’re joking.

You’re not.

When Marcos comes home, he’s even dirtier than yesterday, like the day decided to beat him extra hard. His shirt is damp with sweat, and there’s a bruise blooming along his forearm that he tries to hide by rolling his sleeve. He leans in to kiss you, and you smell cement and heat and fatigue.

“Long day?” you ask.

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah.”

“Did you eat?”

“Not really.”

You nod and head to the kitchen, but your eyes keep sliding back to that backpack. He sets it down gently, too gently, like it holds a secret made of glass. Then he goes to the bathroom, and you hear the shower start.

Your heart pounds in a way that feels ridiculous. You’re not a thief. You’re not suspicious. You’re not the type to go through your boyfriend’s stuff.

But you are the type who refuses to be blindsided.

So you wait. You listen. The shower covers sound like a blanket. You move toward the backpack like you’re approaching a sleeping animal.

Your hands tremble as you unzip it.

Inside, there’s the usual stuff. A water bottle. A battered lunch container. Work gloves stiff with dried dust. A small first aid kit, like he expects pain.

Then you see the envelope.

It’s thick, worn at the edges, folded and unfolded too many times. It’s not addressed to you, but your name is written on the front anyway. Camila.

Your stomach drops.

You pull it out and stare like it might explode.

And then, because you’re already here, you open it.

Inside are papers. Not love letters. Not cheating receipts. Not the drama you were bracing for.

It’s financial stuff. Pay stubs. Deposit slips. A list in his handwriting, neat and determined. Dates. Amounts. A running total.

At the bottom, in bold, almost aggressive pen strokes, you read: DOWN PAYMENT: 43%.

Your breath catches. You flip through more pages. There’s a printed email confirmation from a bank. There’s a document with a property address. There’s a photo, slightly creased, of a small house under construction. Not a mansion, not some fantasy, but a real place with a porch and framing and sunlight.

The shower is still running.

Your mind is running faster.

You’re not seeing betrayal. You’re seeing a plan.

A plan he never told you about.

And that, for reasons you can’t explain, hurts more than betrayal would.

Because it means he’s been carrying hope alone.

You hear the water shut off. Panic jolts through you.

You shove the envelope back into the backpack, zip it, and step away like you were never there. Your heart is hammering so loudly you’re sure Marcos can hear it through walls.

He walks out, towel around his waist, hair dripping, and he smiles at you like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

You look at him and realize you’re about to change the entire shape of your relationship with one conversation.

You swallow hard. “Yeah,” you lie.

But your voice cracks on the edge.

Marcos’s smile fades.

“Camila,” he says, and the way he says it is careful, like he’s stepping around broken glass. “What’s going on?”

You could confront him immediately. You could throw the truth on the table like a plate. You could demand answers.

Instead, you do something worse.

You ask, “How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?”

His eyes narrow. “Doing what?”

“Working until you can’t breathe,” you say. “Working until you fall asleep with one boot on. Working until your hands look like they’ve been in a fight.”

Marcos stiffens, and you see the reflex. The one that says don’t talk about it, don’t make it real, don’t let her worry.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine.”

You take a step closer. “Stop lying to me.”

He flinches.

The room goes silent except for the refrigerator humming like it’s nervous.

Marcos looks at you, and something in his face changes. Not anger. Not guilt. Just the heavy resignation of a man realizing the truth is going to come out whether he wants it to or not.

He glances toward the backpack.

So you were right.

And now you want the whole story, even if it slices.

He sits at the small kitchen table like it’s a courtroom and he’s about to testify. You sit across from him, hands clasped, trying to keep your voice steady even though your insides feel like they’re shaking.

Marcos rubs his palms together, and you watch the rough skin catch against itself. He looks down at his hands like they’re the evidence.

“I didn’t want to tell you yet,” he starts.

“Why?” you ask.

He exhales slowly. “Because if I told you, and then something happened… if the job dried up, if I got hurt, if we couldn’t make it… I didn’t want you to carry the disappointment with me.”

Your throat tightens. “So you decided to carry it alone.”

He meets your eyes. “I decided to carry it for you.”

That sentence lands heavy.

You want to be touched by it. You are touched by it. And you’re also furious. Love doesn’t give you permission to shut someone out.

“You don’t get to protect me from reality by lying,” you say, and your voice trembles, not from weakness, but from pressure. “I’m your partner, Marcos. I’m not a child you hide things from.”

He nods once, slow. “You’re right.”

And that almost makes you cry, because you expected him to argue.

He reaches for the backpack and pulls out the envelope like it weighs a hundred pounds. He slides it across the table toward you, like a peace offering and an apology wrapped together.

“I’ve been saving,” he says. “Every extra hour. Every weekend. Every side job. I’ve been putting it away.”

“For what?” you ask, even though you already know.

He hesitates, then says it: “For a down payment.”

Your chest tightens. “For a house.”

He nods. “Not some fancy thing. Just… ours. Something nobody can take from us. So you don’t have to be scared about rent anymore.”

You stare at him, and your brain tries to reconcile the man you called boring with the man who’s been quietly building a future behind your back. You feel gratitude, yes. But you also feel the sting of being left outside the dream.

“Why didn’t you tell me when you started?” you ask.

Marcos’s jaw clenches. “Because you would’ve told me to stop.”

“Maybe I would’ve,” you admit. “Because you’re killing yourself.”

He looks down. “I know.”

Silence stretches again.

Then you say the question that’s been creeping up since you saw those papers.

“What happens if you get hurt?”

His eyes flicker, and that tiny movement is answer enough.

Something already happened. Or something almost did.

“Marcos,” you whisper, voice sharper now. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He swallows. “There was an accident today.”

Your stomach drops so fast it feels like falling.

“What kind of accident?”

He lifts his arm, and you see it. A bigger bruise now, darkening like spilled ink. “A beam slipped,” he says quietly. “I caught it.”

“You caught it,” you repeat, incredulous. “With your body.”

“I didn’t want it to hit anyone else,” he says, like that’s a normal reason to sacrifice yourself.

Your vision blurs. Anger and fear blend into something that makes your hands shake.

“Do you hear yourself?” you snap. “You could’ve died.”

He flinches. “I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, voice cracking. “You could have. And I wouldn’t even know what you were doing because you don’t tell me anything.”

Marcos looks up at you then, eyes tired but stubborn. “I’m trying to build something for us.”

“And I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to live in it,” you fire back.

The words hang between you like a rope pulled taut.

For a moment, you think he’s going to shut down. You think he’s going to retreat into silence, into that old habit of carrying everything alone.

Instead, he reaches across the table and takes your hands. His palms are rough against yours, but the touch is gentle, almost reverent.

“I’m scared too,” he admits.

That confession hits you harder than the accident.

Because Marcos doesn’t do fear. He does work. He does solutions. He does “I got you.”

But here he is, finally human.

And you realize this isn’t about a house.

It’s about two people who love each other so hard they’ve started hurting each other with the love.

The next week becomes a tug-of-war between his pride and your insistence. You start waking up earlier, packing him lunches that don’t look sad, slipping little notes inside, not cheesy ones, but real ones. Eat this. Hydrate. Come home. You don’t say “I love you” like it’s a decoration. You say it like it’s a promise you’re actively maintaining.

Marcos tries to resist. He tries to act like he’s fine, like he can handle it, like he’s a machine built for sacrifice. But you watch him, and you see the cracks.

One night, he comes home limping.

“What happened?” you demand.

He tries to shrug. “It’s nothing.”

You kneel, lift his pant leg, and see his ankle swollen.

“That is not nothing,” you say.

Marcos opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks almost ashamed.

You get ice. You wrap it. You don’t lecture him, not yet. You just take care of him, because sometimes love is quiet and bossy at the same time.

Later, when he’s half asleep on the couch, you sit on the floor beside him and stare at his hands again. You think about the way your friends talk about men like they’re entertainment. You think about how easy it is to call someone boring when you’ve never had to build a life from scratch.

You also think about something else: the envelope said 43%.

That means there’s still 57% left.

And you know him. If he’s been doing this alone, he’ll keep doing it alone until he collapses.

So you decide something that scares you.

You decide you’re going to step into the plan.

Even if it means changing your own life, not just judging his.

The next day, you apply for a second job.

Not because you want to be a martyr. Not because you think suffering equals love. But because you refuse to let him burn himself down while you stand on the sidelines.

When you tell Marcos, he looks like you punched him.

“No,” he says immediately. “Absolutely not.”

You hold his gaze. “Absolutely yes.”

He shakes his head. “Camila, I’m doing this so you don’t have to.”

You take a breath. “And I’m doing this so you don’t have to either.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m the man.”

You almost laugh, not because it’s funny, but because it’s absurd the way pride dresses itself up as responsibility.

“You’re the man I love,” you correct. “And I’m the woman who loves you. That’s the team. That’s it.”

Marcos looks away, struggling with something inside him, something old. The idea that being needed is the same as being valued. The idea that if he can’t carry everything, he’s failing.

You reach for his hands again.

“You already proved you’ll sacrifice,” you say softly. “Now prove you’ll let me stand next to you.”

He swallows hard.

Then, finally, he nods.

And it feels like a small miracle.

A month later, you’re both exhausted, but it’s a different kind of exhaustion. It’s shared, not lonely. You fall into bed some nights without talking much, but your silence isn’t distance anymore. It’s recovery.

One Friday, Valeria invites you out again. This time, her voice note is less sweet.

“Are you alive?” she says, half laughing, half annoyed. “You’ve been missing for weeks. Don’t tell me you’re still stuck at home with Mr. Construction. You’re disappearing, girl.”

You stare at the message and feel that old insecurity creep up. The fear that you’re wasting your youth. The fear that you’re choosing struggle when you could choose ease.

Then Marcos walks into the room, shirt dusty, hair messy, eyes tired. He stops when he sees you holding the phone, and something flickers in his expression. He knows. He can read the world on your face now.

“You should go,” he says quietly.

“What?” you ask.

He nods toward your phone. “With your friends. You deserve it.”

The offer is sincere, and that’s what makes it painful. He’s not trying to control you. He’s trying not to be the reason you shrink your life.

You stand up and walk to him. “Do you want to come?”

He lets out a small laugh. “In this?”

“I don’t care,” you say.

He looks at you like you’re speaking a language he’s still learning.

You take his hands and lift them between you. “You know what your hands taught me?” you ask.

His brows knit. “What?”

“That fun isn’t always loud,” you say. “Sometimes fun is building something that lasts.”

You see his throat bob as he swallows. He looks away like he’s trying not to feel too much.

But you don’t let him run from it.

“You’re not boring,” you tell him. “You’re… steady. And steady is rare.”

Marcos’s eyes shine for a second, and he blinks like he’s irritated by it.

Then he says, “Okay.”

Just one word.

But it sounds like surrender and hope at the same time.

You both go out.

Not to the antro with flashing lights and strangers. You go to a small food truck park where the music is decent and the air smells like grilled meat and fried dough. You sit at a picnic table under string lights, eating tacos off paper trays. Marcos laughs once, unexpectedly, when a little kid nearby drops a soda and acts like it’s the end of the world.

And you realize you missed his laugh. Not because it’s loud, but because it’s honest.

That night, you take a photo of him holding his taco, smiling, and you almost post it. Almost.

Then you don’t.

Some things don’t need proof.

The turning point comes on a Tuesday that starts like any other. You’re at your second job, feet aching, when your phone buzzes with a number you don’t recognize. You ignore it at first, because scammers exist and you’re busy.

Then it buzzes again.

And again.

Something in your gut tightens.

You answer.

A man’s voice says, “Is this Camila?”

“Yes,” you say, suddenly cold.

“This is the site supervisor at Marquez Construction,” he says. “Your boyfriend, Marcos… there was an incident.”

Your whole body goes still.

“What kind of incident?” you manage.

There’s a pause. “He’s conscious,” the man says quickly, like he knows you’re about to collapse. “But we’re sending him to the hospital to be safe. He asked me to call you.”

The world tilts.

You don’t remember hanging up. You don’t remember telling your manager. You just remember moving, stumbling, racing, the city outside your window blurring into streaks of noise.

At the hospital, the waiting room smells like antiseptic and fear. You spot Marcos’s coworker first, a man with dust on his jeans and worry in his eyes. He points you toward a curtained area.

When you step in, you see Marcos on the bed, arm in a temporary brace, a cut above his eyebrow. His face is pale, and he looks older in that harsh light.

But he’s awake.

When his eyes lock on yours, relief floods his expression so hard you almost hate it. Like you’re oxygen.

You rush to him, grabbing his good hand.

“What happened?” you demand, voice shaking. “Tell me right now.”

Marcos winces. “It was stupid.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He sighs. “Someone didn’t secure a ladder. It slipped. I fell.”

You stare at him, fury rising like a tide. “You fell.”

He nods slightly. “Not far. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” you say, and you can’t stop the tears now. They spill hot and humiliating. “You keep saying you’re fine like it’s magic.”

Marcos looks pained. “Camila…”

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. “Do you realize you could’ve died?”

“I didn’t,” he says softly, like he’s trying to calm you.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” you snap. “Do you think the house matters if you’re not in it?”

His eyes flash. “It matters because you’ll be safe.”

“And what about you?” you say. “Who’s keeping you safe?”

The silence that follows is heavy and intimate. A nurse walks by outside the curtain, voices murmur, machines beep. Life keeps happening while your world pauses.

Marcos finally whispers, “I didn’t think I was allowed to need that.”

Your anger cracks.

Because that sentence isn’t about ladders or work.

It’s about the way he was built. The way he learned that love means carrying. That being a man means being unbreakable. That needing help is failure.

You lean down and press your forehead to his hand.

“You are allowed,” you say, voice raw. “You are allowed to need me. You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to be tired without apologizing.”

Marcos’s breath shudders. His fingers curl around yours, rough skin catching against your softer palm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You lift your head, and your eyes burn. “No more secrets,” you say. “No more doing this alone.”

He nods once, slow. “Okay.”

And this time, that one word sounds like a vow.

Two weeks later, Marcos is home, healing, restless, trying to act like the couch isn’t torture for him. He keeps making jokes about being “retired” and you keep threatening to hide his work boots. The bruises fade slowly, but the lesson stays sharp.

One evening, he asks you to come with him somewhere.

“Where?” you ask, suspicious.

He grins. “Just… trust me.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t like that phrase anymore.”

He laughs softly. “Fair.”

He drives you out past the neighborhoods you usually stay in, past the familiar streets, into an area where the air smells like cut wood and new beginnings. He parks near a construction site, but it’s not his site. It’s quieter, smaller.

The sun is low, painting everything gold.

You step out of the truck and stare.

There, behind a temporary fence, is a small house taking shape. Not finished, but clearly real. Walls framed. A porch half built. A future you can almost touch.

Your chest tightens.

Marcos walks up beside you, hands in his pockets like he’s nervous.

“This is it,” he says.

You look at him, stunned. “This is… ours?”

He nods. “If you still want it.”

You turn back to the house, swallowing hard. “Of course I want it.”

He exhales. “We’re close. Really close.”

You blink. “But the envelope said forty-three percent.”

Marcos’s mouth twitches. “That was a month ago.”

You whip your head toward him. “Marcos.”

He shrugs, a little sheepish. “We’ve been grinding.”

We, you think. Not me. Not you. We.

He gestures toward the porch. “Come on.”

You walk carefully over the uneven ground. The wood smells fresh, clean. It’s not glamorous. It’s not Instagram-perfect. But it feels like something you earned, something you fought for together.

Marcos stops in the center of what will be the living room. He looks around like he’s imagining it furnished, filled, alive.

“There,” he says, pointing. “Couch.”

You laugh through the lump in your throat. “Obviously.”

He points again. “Kitchen. Small, but… we’ll make it work.”

You nod, heart pounding.

Then he points to a corner. “And over there,” he says quietly, “a little room.”

You frown. “For what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He rubs his thumb over his rough knuckle, nervous habit. Then he says, “For whatever comes next.”

The words hang in the air like a question he’s afraid to ask.

You stare at him, and suddenly you understand. This isn’t only about the house.

It’s about roots.

It’s about choosing a life that doesn’t run away from you.

Your eyes burn again.

Marcos clears his throat. “Camila,” he starts, and his voice shakes just slightly, which is rare enough to feel like a miracle. “I know I’ve messed up. I know I tried to do too much alone. I thought love was… providing and shutting up.”

You take a step closer.

He keeps going. “But when you got that second job, when you didn’t laugh at me, when you didn’t leave… when you held my hands like they mattered… I realized something.”

“What?” you whisper.

He looks straight at you, eyes steady despite the tremor in his voice. “I don’t just want to build a house,” he says. “I want to build a life where you don’t have to guess if you’re loved.”

Your breath catches.

Marcos reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small. Not a ring box, not the cliché. A simple metal ring, scuffed, clearly not new.

“It was my dad’s,” he says. “He wore it every day. He told me it wasn’t the ring that mattered, it was the hands that earned it.”

You stare at the ring, then at his hands, and you feel your entire body go soft.

He holds it out. “I can’t promise easy,” he says. “I can’t promise fancy. But I can promise this: you’ll never be alone in it again. Not in the rent fear, not in the tired nights, not in the dreams.”

Your throat tightens so much you can barely speak.

“Camila,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “will you marry me?”

For a second, you don’t answer. Not because you don’t know, but because the moment is too big to rush. You let it fill the unfinished room, let it echo against the raw wood and open sky.

Then you take his hands, both of them, and you press them to your lips.

“Yes,” you say, voice breaking. “Yes, but only if we do it together. No more silent suffering. No more acting strong when you’re drowning.”

Marcos’s eyes shine, and he laughs, a shaky, relieved sound.

“I swear,” he whispers.

You slip the ring on your finger. It’s a little loose. It’s not perfect.

Neither are you.

But you look around at the framed walls and the porch and the space where your future will sit and eat and argue and forgive and laugh. You think of your friends at the antro, the stories, the bottles, the flash.

And you realize something, clear as glass.

The loud kind of fun fades by morning.

This kind of love doesn’t.

That night, back in your apartment, you don’t feel trapped anymore. The walls aren’t a cage, they’re a temporary shelter. Marcos falls asleep early again, because healing still takes its toll, but this time you don’t interpret it as neglect. You interpret it as a body trusting you enough to rest.

You sit beside him and take his hands in yours, turning them over slowly. You trace the calluses like they’re sacred text.

You think about the version of you from weeks ago, ready to leave because “boring” felt like death. You think about how close you came to mistaking peace for emptiness. You think about how sacrifice can look ugly up close, how love isn’t always flowers, sometimes it’s a lunch packed at dawn, an ankle wrapped with ice, a second job you didn’t want but chose anyway.

And you realize the brutal truth isn’t that Marcos is boring.

The brutal truth is that real love rarely entertains you.

It builds you.

🧠 THE BRUTAL TRUTH:
You almost left because you wanted fireworks, but what you actually needed was a foundation. The world teaches you to chase men who make nights exciting, but it doesn’t teach you how to recognize the ones who make your life safer. You learned it the hard way, through dust and bruises and a boy with tired eyes who kept saying “I got you” until his hands started to prove it.

You lean down and kiss his rough knuckles softly.

Then you turn off the light.

And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep without the fear of rent sitting on your chest like a stone, because you finally understand: the hands that look “boring” are often the ones holding up your whole future.