The crisp trousers slide over my legs, covering the scratches and bruises that map last night's journey. The fabric whispers against my skin, a language of civilization, of humanness, of control. I smooth nonexistent wrinkles from the material, a ritual of normalcy that grounds me in this form, in this identity. My phone buzzes against the concrete where I've set it, the screen illuminating with Lucas's name, and my heart lurches in my chest—a betrayal of composure I cannot afford.
I hesitate before picking up the device, as if the message might somehow reach through the screen and expose me further. When I finally lift the phone, the words on the display are simple yet devastating in their implication: "Are you safe? I can help."
The offer sends contradictory waves through my body—relie
