Chapter Two: Bruises Without Touch

At first, it was subtle. Sarcastic jabs when Mira forgot something. Eye rolls when she opened up about her past. Mira had survived childhood trauma and silently carried the weight of an incident that had shattered her sense of safety. She was obese, often judged by society and strangers alike. But in Sofia, she thought she had found refuge.

Until compassion became a weapon.

When Mira cried — raw, trembling sobs about her past, about family, about being invisible — Sofia's face twisted not in sympathy, but irritation. She'd sigh, say things like, "Well, my dad is amazing. I've never had problems like that. Maybe you're overthinking it."

But Mira wasn't. Her pain was real. Her wounds still fresh.

Then came the slaps. The pinches. Nails dug into skin. All done in jest, Sofia claimed. But Mira knew — a part of her knew — that love doesn't bruise, not even in laughter.