I want to protect her forever, but I can't. And that hurts more than a gun shot wound.
Elias
She walked toward the truck like her legs barely belonged to her.
She looked like she'd been hit by one.
Not physically—no bruises, no limp.
But the way she moved across the campus sidewalk… slow, small, like gravity had
doubled and it was pressing down only on her.
She didn't see me at first.
I had the truck parked at the end of the drop-off loop, engine idling. Window down.
She scanned the curb, then finally spotted me.
She opened the passenger door without a word. Climbed in.
Closed it gently—like even the door didn't deserve to be disturbed.
I didn't ask anything right away.
Just turned the key. Let the engine fill the silence.
The radio hummed low. Something acoustic and forgettable.
I waited.
Halfway home, I glanced over. She still hadn't taken off her backpack.
Her shoulders were hunched.
Hands curled around the seatbelt strap like it was the only thing keeping her together.
I asked about her day.
She answered—
Quiet. Flat. Like the words had already failed her before they left her mouth.
"I didn't understand half of it."
I nodded.
"They use big words. I felt stupid."
"You're not."
It came out too fast. Sharper than I meant.
Like I needed her to believe it, even if she couldn't.
"I couldn't concentrate.
My legs were shaking the whole time. I didn't even write anything down."
I wanted to pull over.
Turn around.
Tell her, Forget it. You don't need this.
But I didn't.
"It was your first day," I said.
She didn't answer.
Didn't cry. Didn't sigh.
But the silence that followed said enough.
When we got home, I handed her a protein bar from the pantry.
"You survived," I told her. "That's step one."
She nodded. But her eyes never left the floor.
She walked to her room with the same quiet,
deliberate steps she used to take when fear was still stitched into her skin.
When the door clicked shut behind her, I leaned against the fridge and exhaled slow.
There are moments—small ones, quiet ones—when I think we're past the worst of it.
Then days like this remind me: Healing isn't linear.
She's still learning how to live.
Still figuring out who she is outside of survival.
And now she's trying.
In a classroom full of kids who never had to unlearn fear just to sit still.
I've never been prouder.
And I've never felt so fucking useless.
She doesn't need someone to carry her anymore.
She needs someone to walk beside her.
To tell her it's okay to fall. To help her learn how to get back up.
And all I want to do is shield her.
From every confusion.
Every embarrassment.
Every academic word some professor throws like it's supposed to make sense to everyone.
But I can't.
I'm not supposed to.
She needs to fall.
To feel it.
To own it.
And I hate that.
Because when she looks that tired, that small—
I want to fix it.
I want to say, Forget school. Stay home. I'll take care of you forever.
And I could. I would.
But I can't.
Because she's not mine to keep in a box.
Not a girl to shelter forever.
Not a child anymore.
And if I keep protecting her from everything…
She'll never learn how to protect herself.
God, I wish she didn't have to.
I stood there.
In the kitchen we've shared for five years.
Hands useless at my sides.
Heart too full. Too heavy.
And I whispered into the dark:
"You did good, Liana."
Even if she couldn't hear it.
Even if she wouldn't believe it.
You did good.