Don't LOOK @ Me

Neon says it’s Thursday.

I nod when Her says it. I always do. Thursdays are safe days, I think. Or maybe that’s Tuesdays. The days feel like colors more than names now—some bright, some dull, some better avoided. Still, Thursday sounds right in Neon’s mouth. Calm. Assured. Like Her saying it makes it true. When Neon leaves the room, I let myself move again. That’s when I check the fridge. The date is written in neat, careful handwriting, the marker thick and dark so it won’t fade. MONDAY. I stare at it longer than I should. My head does that buzzing thing again, like when you wake up too fast from a dream and the room hasn’t finished loading yet. Monday. But Neon said Thursday. I tell myself Neon updated it and I just missed it. Or Neon forgot. Or I’m the one forgetting again. That happens sometimes. I’ve been told that gently, many times, like it’s a fragile truth that might crack if spoken too loudly. Still. I erase the word with my sleeve. The marker smears but doesn’t disappear completely. Ghost-letters cling to the metal, stubborn. I write THURSDAY over it, careful to match Neon’s handwriting as best I can. I’ve practiced. Neon likes things consistent. When Her footsteps pause outside the kitchen, my stomach tightens—not fear, exactly. More like anticipation. Like waiting to be graded. Neon comes in, glances at the fridge, and smiles. “Good,” Her says. “I thought I’d forgotten to update it.” Relief rushes through me so fast my eyes sting. I did something right. I did something helpful. My chest feels warm, buzzing, the way it does when Neon touches my hair just once and then stops. But something itches at the back of my mind. Later, while Neon showers, I sit on the bed and try to remember yesterday. I remember going to sleep. I remember waking up. I remember eating breakfast. I remember Neon watching me eat, reminding me to take my time, to breathe. I don’t remember the space between. I check my phone. There are no messages. There never are. The lock screen says Thursday, 9:12 AM. That matches. That’s good. Except— My last photo is of the same breakfast plate. Same angle. Same crumbs. Same light through the window. Timestamped Monday. I scroll. There are more. Each day the same plate. The same cup. The same half-moon crack in the table. Different timestamps. Same moment. My hands start to shake. I tuck them under my thighs the way Neon taught me. Pressure helps. Being still helps. Panic is useless. Neon steps out of the bathroom, hair damp, expression softening when Her eyes find me. “There you are,” Her says. “You went quiet.” “I’m fine,” I answer immediately. The words come out clean. Easy. Rehearsed. Neon smiles like I’ve solved a puzzle correctly and comes to sit beside me. Her hand settles on my knee—not gripping, just present. Anchoring. “What were you doing?” Her asks. I think about the fridge. The photos. The word Monday bleeding through Thursday like a bruise that won’t heal. I look at Neon instead. “Waiting,” I say. Her thumb strokes my leg once. Approval. Or comfort. Or both. “That’s my Venus,” Neon murmurs. “You’re safe. See? Everything’s moving forward.” I nod. I always nod. But as Neon pulls me closer, I realize something small and terrible— I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting. And I don’t remember a time when Neon wasn’t here to tell me what day it is.

Venus Doesn't Look @ The Neon Light

Venus says she’s fine. She says it the way people repeat facts they learned once and never tested again. Flat. Careful. Like the word might break if handled too roughly. I make breakfast while she watches from the doorway. She doesn’t come into the kitchen unless I invite her—her idea, not mine. At least, that’s what I remember her saying when I first noticed the habit. “Sit,” I tell her gently. She sits. Her hands are steady today. That’s good. Yesterday they weren’t, and she apologized for it, which still confuses me. Shaking isn’t a crime. Not here. I remind her of that often. She nods when I do, eyes lowered, relief or fear flickering across her face so fast I can never quite name it. I tell myself it’s relief. People misunderstand vigilance. They think it’s control. But control is lazy. Control leaves bruises. I watch because the world is full of sharp edges, and Venus has always been soft in the wrong places. She bruised easily before me. Emotionally. Socially. She used to come home hollowed out, telling stories about friends who forgot her birthday, lovers who called her “too much” and then vanished. I didn’t have to convince her she was unsafe out there. She arrived knowing it. Sometimes she asks what day it is. I answer every time. Monday. Thursday. Sunday. The days pass in the correct order as far as I can tell. If they didn’t, I would notice. I notice everything. Still, she asks again later. Quietly. Like she’s checking the temperature of a room. “Just wondering,” she says, smiling too quickly. I write the date on the fridge now. That helps. Probably. When she flinches, I catalog it. Loud noise. Sudden movement. Certain words. Names she doesn’t use anymore. I remove the causes as best I can. That’s what love is: subtraction. She told me once—voice barely there—that she feels smaller lately. I reminded her that small things survive disasters better. She laughed, but it sounded like she’d practiced. At night, I lock the windows. Not because she might leave. Because someone might come in. I tell her this as I check each latch. She nods and pulls the blanket up to her chin. Her eyes follow my hands, the way they always do, like if she loses sight of them something terrible will happen. I don’t ask why. I don’t want to put ideas in her head. She sleeps eventually. I don’t. Sometimes I replay old conversations to make sure they happened the way I remember. The first “I love you.” The first time she said she needed me. The first time she cried and I didn’t let anyone else see it. There are gaps. Everyone has gaps. Once, I found a bruise on her arm. Yellowing. Old. She said she didn’t know where it came from. I laughed it off—people bruise themselves all the time. Doorframes. Tables. Dreams. But later, alone, I tried to remember if I’d grabbed her. Not angrily. Never angrily. Just—firmly. Protective pressure. I couldn’t remember doing it. That doesn’t mean I didn’t. Venus doesn’t look at mirrors much anymore. She says they make her feel like she’s watching someone else. I turned them around, faced them to the wall. Out of respect. “You don’t have to change everything for me,” she said. I told her I wasn’t changing anything. Just adjusting. She thanked me too many times. Sometimes she stands very still when I move behind her. Like prey. Like trust. The difference is contextual. I ask her if she’s scared of me. Her answer is immediate. Too immediate. “No. Never. You’re the only thing that makes sense.” That should comfort me. It doesn’t. Because safety doesn’t usually need to be rehearsed. And love—real love—doesn’t sound like something memorized under pressure. Still, she’s here. She stays. She smiles. She says she’s fine. And I believe her. I have to. Because if Venus isn’t safe with me— Then where, exactly, did all the danger go?