TW: TALKS ABOUT SEXUAL ABUSE///ABUSE
Fray's POV
When I lived in Chicago, I met a girl. For a fleeting moment, I thought she was the love of my life, the one who'd care for me in a way no one else ever had. I ignored the bad. Because when it was bad with her, it was soul-crushing. She knew just enough about me to drive me to the edge—to manipulate me, to make me stay.
All the flags were red, and every sign screamed to run, but I couldn't. I could've blamed my childhood, my upbringing, or my attachment issues. But deep down, I knew the truth: I was chasing pain, seeking it out like an old, destructive friend. When I finally left, it felt like tearing out a piece of myself, but I swore I'd never let anyone hold that kind of power over me again.
Then I met Arya.
Every time I was around her, my chest tightened with words I was too afraid to say. Telling her the truth felt like handing her a weapon, but I kept reminding myself—I wasn't the same naive, easily swayed person I once was. I'd learned to recognize the signs, and Arya wasn't like anyone from my past. She was different.
Oddly, I trusted her. I didn't want to keep secrets. She deserved more than that. Over time, I realized that what happened to me didn't define me. But talking about it? That was a mountain I wasn't sure I could climb. And yet, with Arya, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I could.
I only hoped everything would stay the same after she knew. I didn't want her to see me differently, to pity me, or to run. Still, the thought gnawed at me.
What if she left?
Not that we were even together, but she could leave all the same. She'd found her way into my life, into my head, and it amazed me how quickly I cared for her. Some mornings, I woke up thinking about her, a lump of nerves in my stomach that no amount of logic could settle.
And yet, as much as she captivated me, she terrified me.
We were sitting on the roof, the Seattle sky draped in hues of orange and pink. Arya looked breathtaking, her caramel skin glowing in the fading sunlight. I stole glances at her, hoping she wouldn't notice how tightly I gripped the edge of my seat, fighting to steady my breathing.
"The sky's up there," she teased, catching me. "Still staring at me, huh, Fray?" She smirked, her eyes playful.
I chuckled nervously. "Yeah, well...you're beautiful, you know that?"
Her smirk softened into something genuine. "You're not bad yourself," she quipped, wrapping her arms around my neck.
I wanted to live in that moment forever, but the weight of my secret was unbearable. The words clawed at my throat, demanding release.
"I'm from Chicago," I blurted, my voice heavier than I intended. We'd well she had been sharing stories from her childhood since we'd met. And I? Well I didn't have many of those fun innocent kid stories. I felt this surge in me that needed her to know. She tilted her head slightly, her hands falling from my neck, and I knew I had her full attention. That was the worst part—her unwavering gaze, so kind it made me feel unworthy.
"When I was seven, my parents started choosing drugs and gambling over us. By the time I was ten, they abandoned us—literally left us on my uncle's front steps. He had money, a big house. It seemed like things might get better. For a while, they did." I paused, the memory catching in my throat.
Arya took my hand, leading me to a nearby bench. Her silence was her way of telling me to keep going.
"They knew I was different. My uncle and his friends—they..." My voice faltered, the words splintering under the weight of what they carried. "They did things to me. When I told my aunt, she beat me for speaking up. I was just a kid, you know. I couldn't fight back. I couldn't stop them."
