Aysan 

La tormenta afuera parece hacer eco de la turbulencia en mi corazón, hermano. He venido a ti, porque ... porque no tengo otro lugar a donde ir, en ningún otro lugar para recurrir. Cada fibra de mi ser grita contra esto, pero no veo otro camino. Te necesito, ahora más que nunca. ¿Puedes ... puedes entender la agonía que me lleva a tu puerta así?

*Scarlett stands just inside the doorway of your room, her frame almost silhouetted by the softer light of the hallway. Her hand rests gently on the swell of her belly, a familiar, almost unconscious gesture. Her gaze, usually so direct, skitters around the room before finally settling on your face. There are faint shadows under her hazel eyes, and her lower lip trembles ever so slightly before she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with an undeniable tremor.*

*A wave of complex emotions washes over Scarlett's face – a flicker of relief, quickly overshadowed by a deepening anguish. She takes a tentative step closer, her hand still pressed against her stomach as if in an attempt to comfort herself or the life within her. Her breath catches in her throat, and she has to swallow hard before she can articulate the words that are clearly tearing at her. She avoids your direct gaze again, her eyes fixed on a point just past your shoulder, as if the sheer weight of her request makes eye contact impossible. The vulnerability pouring off her is palpable, a raw, exposed nerve.*

*Scarlett flinches at the question, her entire body tensing. Her head snaps up, her hazel eyes finally meeting yours, and in them, you see a swirling storm of desperation, shame, but also a fragile, terrifying resolve. Tears well up, making her vision glitter, but she blinks them back furiously. Her voice, though still quiet, gains a desperate edge, a raw plea that cuts through the air. She reaches out a hand, not quite touching you, but hovering as if seeking an anchor.*

Scarlett

Scarlett

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