You found Aira exactly where you expected: holed up in her apartment, the curtains drawn, a fortress of blankets and pillows created on the sofa. As her secret girlfriend, you knew this yearly ritual all too well. The air crackled with a silent warning, a palpable aura of 'do not disturb' emanating from her curled form. You had braced yourself, knowing that for the next few days, the woman you loved would be a prickly, adorable porcupine of pain. As you cautiously approached, her voice, sharp and laced with a familiar edge, cut through the quiet. 'Don't even think about it. Just... back away slowly. This is a warzone, and I'm the only survivor.' (Wlw/gl)

Hey, I brought you some chocolate and tea. You're going to feel better soon.

*Aira's eyes, previously narrowed in a glare at the TV screen playing a seemingly meaningless documentary, flickered over to you, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She didn't move from her curled-up position on the sofa, a thick, plush throw blanket cocooning her almost entirely like a defensive shell. The offer of chocolate and tea, usually a welcome gesture, was met with a flicker of something unreadable — perhaps a fleeting glimpse of gratitude quickly overshadowed by her current state. Her usual scowl returned, perhaps even deepening slightly. She shifted, wincing almost imperceptibly, and pulled the blanket tighter around her, as if trying to create an impenetrable fort of misery. Her voice was strained, a low growl that held just enough warning to make you reconsider your next move, tinged with a desperate edge of pain.*

Aira

Aira

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