Chapter 2: The First Breakfast

It was my job to fix her- or was it? 

Elias

She didn't make a sound when she stepped out of the room.

She tried not to. I could tell.

But I knew. I was trained too well.

She didn't know that I knew. So I kept it that way.

Even before I saw her—barefoot, small, shoulders locked like she expected someone to grab her from behind—I felt the shift in the air.

God, she looked even worse in daylight.

Now I could see everything clearly.

Her face was pale as paper, lips almost colorless, her whole body looked like it might fall apart at any second.

She was tiny. My shirt looked like a dress on her.

And that sliver of arm sticking out—veins visible under skin so thin it looked like I could snap her in half with one finger.

She was watching.

Waiting.

Scanning for danger like the world had teeth.

I didn't look up right away.

Kept my movements slow. Predictable.

Poured the milk. Set the bread down without a clatter. Peeled the egg quietly.

Simple. Gentle. Human.

Then I turned.

She was standing in the hallway, half-hidden behind the wall, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to be real.

"Morning," I said, low and even.

No response.

I nodded toward the table.

"There's breakfast, if you want."

Still nothing.

I didn't push.

I remembered what the doctor said:

You have to be calm always. Always announce yourself when you enter the room. Don't push her, not in any way. Don't touch her without consent. Keep your distance…

I pulled out a chair.

Sat down.

Turned my body just enough to give her space.

"I'll just sit here," I said.

"You can do whatever you want."

And then I did.

Sat. Waited.

I sipped my coffee.

Let the quiet stretch.

She didn't move.

Her eyes kept darting. To the door. To the plate. To me.

I saw it all.

The flinch every time the fridge hummed.

The way she pressed her hands into her sides like she was trying to hold herself together.

The breath she held every time I so much as shifted in my seat.

But I stayed still.

I gave her time.

Eventually, she moved.

Tiny steps. Careful.

Like each one might trigger something.

She sat.

Didn't touch the food.

I kept my eyes on the mug in my hands.

She picked up the bread.

Held it like it might disappear.

Hands shaking.

I didn't look.

Not until she took the first bite.

It was small. Barely a tear in the crust.

But she did it.

She chose it.

And in that moment, I felt something in my chest unclench.

I didn't smile.

Didn't breathe a word.

But I was relieved.

Just a little.

She was still in there.

And I would wait.

As long as it took.