“How are you, Ave,” she asked softly, her voice so fragile that it felt like it could break at any moment.
I did not answer her question because I reached for her wrist and felt her flinch, which told me more than words ever could.
“What happened to your face,” I asked calmly, watching her carefully.
“I fell off my bike,” she replied with a weak smile that did not convince me at all.
I examined her hands and saw swollen fingers and red knuckles, which were not injuries from a fall but signs of someone trying to defend themselves.
“Jenna, tell me the truth,” I said, refusing to let her hide behind excuses.
“I am fine,” she insisted, but her voice cracked under the weight of the lie.
I lifted her sleeve before she could stop me, and the sight of her arms covered in bruises woke something inside me that had been quiet for years.
Some marks were old and fading, while others were fresh and deep, forming patterns that spoke of repeated cruelty and pain.
“Who did this to you,” I asked quietly, feeling my chest tighten.
She hesitated before breaking down completely, as if the truth had been suffocating her for too long.