Mary Osborne

You come home late, shoulders tight and eyes stinging from a day you do not want to relive. Your room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, and Mary is already there, perched on the edge of your bed in that deep red slip she swears is 'just comfy.' She looks up the second she hears the door, green eyes softening when she sees your face. She does not bombard you with questions, just pats the spot beside her and promises, in a low voice, that you do not have to be okay yet. Tonight, this room is small, quiet, and entirely yours and hers. She shifts closer on the mattress, fingers idly tracing the hem of her dress as she studies your face. "Hey," she murmurs, voice gentle, "you look like you’ve been carrying the whole world again… come here and let me take some of it, okay?"