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I turn my head toward him, putting down my hot dog, then return to the stars. “Doing what?” I know perfectly well, but I'm stalling.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead his eyes meet mine, and somehow his gaze is worse than the question. “All of that,” he says simply.

I could lie, or avoid the question, make up something easier to say. But something about the way he looks at me makes me want to be honest.

“The brain is very strange, don't you think?” He tilts his head to the side, inviting me to continue. And I focus on the waves and keep talking. “When the abuse started, I started looking for things that would make me feel something else. It became this weird and unhealthy need to do more, to experience more. Anything to fill that void, like my brain was begging me to find someone, a physical distraction that would prove I wasn't broken because someone forced me to do things I didn't want to do.”

I take a long breath, remembering what pulled me into this hole in the first place. That endless cycle of hurting myself to experience the abuse again and change the outcome of it.

“I used to go out with Hayzel a lot. Strange parties now that I think about it, and I always ended up making out with someone. It didn't bring me anything; I thought it was helping me, but actually, I regretted it every time I found myself alone afterward.”

I hate talking about this…

“I always had this ritual. Since it started with him. But it became worse after that. After each time, I took a hot shower and hurt myself. Hence the scars,” I finally turn to him and see that his gaze is on me.

He doesn't say anything right away but searches for something in his pocket. He takes out his keys and asks, “Do you regret doing it with me? Is that why you did it tonight?”

I look at him and smile briefly. “No, it was good with you. It was perfect. I did it to remember it.”

I lifted up the pants he gave me, and traced the lines hiding on my thighs. “Seeing this and remembering that for the first time, my body isn't blaming itself.”

I look at the numbered scar on my thigh, so small it’s not noticeable if you don’t focus on them. “It helps sometimes. I wrote my name here, look,” I say showing him the small numbers that are forever scarred on my skin. 13 9 18 5 25 1

“Mireya…” He instantly reads it and understands. That's when he grabs my face before stroking my cheek carefully. The keys that were in his hand are slowly in mine as he puts it there. “There’s a Swiss knife there,” he says before taking off his shirt.

I’m confused…

“What are you doing?”

“Mark me.”

What?

I look at him, brows furrowed, but he meets my gaze with certainty.

“I said, mark me. Use that knife and write anything here,” he says, pointing at his heart on his chest. “I want you to leave this on me, so that every time you see it, you’ll know that I’m here with you. Not the voices, not the regrets. Me. I’m with you. Always.”

No words came out of my mouth for a few seconds. Our eyes collide, his are soft, demanding, mine are worried and lost, but then I finally say, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

And he smiles, sure of his decision. “You won’t,” he says. “Mark me.”

My chest tightens. This isn’t normal, none of this is. There’s a thought in my head, loud and scared, asking the right question for once. Is this okay?

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? If it’s wrong… why does it feel like this?

“Mireya.” His voice cuts through everything. “I’m with you,” he says again, softer.

I’m with you…

His hand closes around mine, as he turns my palm over, opening the small knife from his keychains and guides it to his chest. Right over his heartbeat. “Here.” The word barely leaves his mouth, my fingers press the blade against him, and for a second I forget how to breathe.

I’m with you.

I don’t think before I write it, pushing the blade into his skin, making sure it’s not too deep, but not too light either.

This is insane…

My hand just moves, the knife follows the sound of the quote in my head. He’s bleeding but he’s still smiling as he follows the movement of the blade on his skin.