𝓥𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽

Dominic and I called almost every day. He would text and send me photos - the Effiel Tower, French restaurants, and streets, historic sites, photos of flowers, and himself - I saved them all. Putting the photos into a special collection in my phones gallery.

Now that his work was officially starting, the daily calls turned into every other day, and his texts became quick replies spread out by hours.

A sadness washed over me.

I often left my phone at home whenever I went out because I knew I wouldn't get a message back for some time, but I was always pleased to see three to four when I returned.

After Clara picked me up from school, and after I checked for any messages, she went into the kitchen and quietly took out some pans and utensils.

She was stuck in her head.

"Clara," I started. She took out a box from the pantry to make pancakes. "Are you okay?"

She stood quietly for a moment and then slowly exhaled - her breath shaky.

She opened her mouth, glanced in my direction, and then shook her head.

Clara rarely told me things.

I sat down at the dining table, watching as Clara cooked. I couldn't help but notice how numb, how distant she seemed. She burnt a few of the pancakes and almost burnt her arm - or was it deliberate?

Finally, I said something again. "Clara, please tell me. Something's wrong, I know it is."

"I'm okay, Violet," she replied quietly, a slight edge in her tone. She put a few pancakes onto a plate and handed it to me.

The sleeve on her arm lifted slightly - enough for me to see a mark on her wrist.

"Clara!" I surprised myself as my voice raised. I swallowed, casting a brief glance around the room.

She looked at me, her eyes full of tears.

"What happened? Tell me. What's on your arm?"