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?
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