Coco's pov
The bathroom mirror was the most honest thing in my life. It didn't soften truths, didn't look away out of politeness, it didn't pretend. The mirror always told it as it was, and this morning, it told me I was bruised. Again.
I leaned closer, tilting my chin toward the harsh light bulb above. The deep purples had faded into a sickly green along the curve of my shoulder. The imprint of fingernails still carved faint crescent moons into my forearm, like someone had tried to hold me down and make sure I remembered it. Which, of course, they had.
I let out a breath, fogging up the mirror, and wiped it away with my palm. For a second, I considered doing what my stepmother always accused me of doing, being dramatic, exaggerating, flaunting wounds for sympathy, but there was no one here. No audience. Just my reflection, my swollen skin, and the gnawing ache beneath it.
The sweater would have to do. Long sleeves, even in the sticky heat of the late afternoon. A scarf to cover the faint shadow at my throat. Bangles around my wrist to draw the eye away from the darker marks. I pulled my hair down from the bun and let the curtain of curls frame my face. I hated the thought of being seen, but I hated pity more.
Especially from Kairo.
My stomach tightened at the thought of our tutoring session. It wasn't just dread; it was humiliation tangled with resignation. Kairo already thought I was beneath her, untidy, unimportant, "the poor girl." If she saw the bruises, what then? Another layer of pity, another reason for her to look at me like something fragile and disposable.
My jaw hardened. No. I would not give her that satisfaction.
The memory of last night tugged at me like a splinter. I tried to push it down, but it rose anyway.
My stepmother's voice, sharp and cutting: "You think you're too good to earn your keep? Do you want me to tell your dead father you're refusing? Hm?"
The way her hand had clamped around my arm, nails digging, twisting my skin until tears pricked my eyes. The laughter from the corner, my stepsister, smirking as if my pain was theatre.
"She's just the help now. A maid who can add numbers. You should be grateful anyone wants you to tutor their child."
Grateful. That word had always been like a knife. I was supposed to be grateful for the roof over my head, in my father's house, the food on the table, the very air I breathed. Every bruise, every insult, every manipulation was dressed up as generosity.
But tutoring Kairo? That was survival. With what I earned, I could set something aside, maybe even secure a little independence. My stepmother knew it, that's why she dangled the threat of taking it away like a leash around my throat.
So I went. I always went.
Today, I met her at her school. The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and dust when she arrived. Kairo was already at the desk, her uniform perfect, her posture straight. She didn't even look up right away, just flipped through her notebook with the impatience of someone who wanted to be anywhere else.
"Sit," Kairo said, without warmth.
I set my bag down gently, forcing a calmness I didn't feel. "We'll start with what you struggled with yesterday." My voice was level, polite. Not deferential, never that, but careful.
Kairo finally looked at me, and there it was again: that sharp, cutting gaze. For a moment, it made me want to shrink into myself, but I straightened instead, opened my own notebook, and began.
We worked through the problems slowly, my tone soft but steady as I explained step by step. Kairo challenged me at every turn, as if waiting for me to falter, but I didn't. I had learned long ago how to steady my hands even when my heart was trembling.
And then it happened.
I leaned forward to point at the margin of Kairo's page, where an error had crept in. My sleeve slipped. Just a little. Just enough.
The world seemed to slow.
I saw Kairo's eyes flick down, I saw the tiny flicker of surprise when she registered the faint outline of bruises climbing up my arm. I tugged my sleeve down instantly, my pulse roaring in my ears. My breath caught, but I forced my expression to stay smooth.
Now I know how abuse victims are quiet and ashamed about their abuse. It's automatic, you don't decide it's what you want to do. I literally just happens. Almost as if the abuse itself has a mind of its own.
Kairo didn't say anything. Not right away, but something in her sharpness dulled.
My throat went dry. Shame prickled along my skin, hotter than the bruises themselves. I hated this, I hated being seen like this, I hated the thought of whispers starting behind my back, the thought of pity lurking in Kairo's eyes.
I kept talking. Pretended nothing had happened. My finger traced equations, my voice never wavered, though inside I felt hollow.
But Kairo's voice, when she answered, was different. Softer. Less clipped. The change was small, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. Shit, I hated that things changed just because of this!!!
When the session ended, I packed my bag quickly, desperate to leave before the silence pressed too heavily between us. I could feel Kairo watching me, measuring, thinking, maybe even worrying. The weight of it made me want to fold in on myself. Oh God!
At the door, I risked one glance back at her. Kairo's face was unreadable, but her eyes… her eyes weren't full of disdain anymore. They were conflicted. Searching.
That was somehow worse. This is the biggest shame of my life.
Because I could face cruelty. I could face indifference, but compassion? Compassion cracked me open in ways I couldn't afford.
I walked out too quickly, the hallway swallowing my steps. My hand tightened around the strap of my worn bag until my knuckles ached.
If she knows, she'll never look at me the same, I thought. And maybe that's worse than the bruises.
I whispered a prayer under my breath, so quiet it was almost a secret: "Keep me strong. Keep me unseen."
The evening air wrapped around me as I stepped outside. I pulled my sweater tighter, the bruises hidden once more.
And I walked on.