tw. domestic violence, addiction, substance abuse, implied sexual abuse

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

Melina sat at the small table, a chipped mug of cold coffee cradled between her hands, eyes fixed on the peeling paint of the wall in front of her. She hadn't said a word since they walked in the door.

Maeve hovered near the window, arms wrapped around herself. She didn't know what to do with her body—whether to sit, to cry, to scream, to vanish. Everything felt wrong.

The silence between them wasn't empty—it was full of everything they couldn't say.

Finally, Melina spoke. Her voice was soft, like something fraying. "I'm sorry."

Maeve didn't answer. Her throat ached, she couldn't tell if the ache was from holding in her tears or the bruises from when the John strangled her so she stopped crying.

Melina turned toward her, her eyes shining with guilt and rage she couldn't aim at anyone but herself. "I tried to keep you out of it. I thought I had more time."

"You didn't have a choice," Maeve said, her voice thin. "I know."

"That doesn't make it right."

Maeve slowly moved to the table and sat across from her. The light from the single bulb above flickered, casting shadows across their tired faces.

"I'm not mad at you," Maeve whispered. "I'm scared. That's all."

Melina reached out, hesitant, and took Maeve's hand in hers. It was rough, calloused, but warm.

"You're all I've got, Maeve."

Maeve squeezed her sister's hand, tears slipping down her cheek now, silent and steady. "Then don't leave me behind."

"I won't," Melina said, fierce again. "Not ever."

In the middle of that dark, broken little apartment, two sisters sat hand in hand—tired, bruised, and bent by the world—but unbroken, still holding on to each other. Because sometimes, love wasn't loud. It wasn't easy. It was just staying. Even when everything else tried to make you run.

The apartment door creaked open suddenly, and Maeve flinched. Melina's hand tightened around hers.

Nancy stumbled in, thin and twitching, wrapped in an oversized coat that smelled like old smoke and rot. Her eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused, darting around the room like she couldn't quite tell if she was home or somewhere else.

"Oh," she mumbled, squinting at her daughters. "You're still here."

She dropped her purse—if you could call the torn plastic bag that—on the counter and rummaged through it with shaking hands, ignoring the silence pressing in around her.

Melina stood slowly, placing herself between Nancy and Maeve without thinking.

"Where've you been?" she asked, voice cold.

Nancy gave a vague shrug. "Out. You know how it is."

"No," Melina said. "I don't."

Nancy glanced at her, then at Maeve, who wouldn't meet her eyes. "Don't start, Mel. I don't need your attitude tonight."

"You never need anything," Melina snapped. "Except another hit."

Nancy flinched but didn't argue. She shuffled to the cabinet, took a nearly empty bottle of vodka, and drank straight from it. Her hands trembled so badly, she spilled some down her chin.

Maeve stood now too, but didn't say anything. She just watched—watched the woman who was supposed to be their mother drift like a ghost through the shell of their home.

Melina's voice softened, but only just. "Do you even care what he's doing to her?"

Nancy paused, the bottle halfway to her mouth. Her face tensed, but she didn't look back.

"I didn't ask for this," she muttered. "None of it."

"No," Melina said, the words razor-sharp, "but we're the ones paying for it."

Nancy didn't reply. She just sank onto the couch, turned her back to them, and lit a cigarette with a trembling hand.

The room was thick with smoke and silence.

Maeve finally moved to Melina's side, her small hand brushing her sister's arm. "She doesn't care."

Melina didn't answer right away. She just looked at their mother—curled up, fading, already gone in so many ways.

"No," she said quietly. "But I do."

Maeve leaned her head against Melina's shoulder.

And that was enough. For tonight.

___________

The apartment felt smaller lately. Not physically, but in the way heavy air can crowd a room. Between Michael's unpredictable rages and Nancy's drifting, drug-hazed absence, Melina had taken to sleeping with her boots on — always ready to run, to fight, to throw herself between danger and Maeve.

Maeve had noticed the change. Melina was quieter now. Sharper. She hardly smiled anymore.

Jason still came around. Not every night, but often enough that Maeve looked for him the moment the sun began to fall behind the buildings. He was her comfort — her escape in the form of a smart-mouthed, street-tough boy who always gave her the bigger half of the sandwich.

One night, as the sun sank and shadows bled into the alleyways, Jason found Maeve sitting on the fire escape, knees pulled up to her chest.

"You okay?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away. Then: "It's getting worse."

Jason sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Your dad?"

Maeve nodded.

He didn't ask for details. He'd seen enough — the bruises Melina couldn't hide, the way Maeve flinched at sudden movements, how she never quite let her back face a door.

Jason stared out at the skyline. "You shouldn't still be there."

"I don't have a choice," she said. "Melina... She's trying. She takes all the hits so I don't have to. But she's breaking, Jason. I can feel it."

Jason didn't speak for a moment. Then he whispered, "So are you."

Maeve leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice barely audible. "She won't let me fall. So I can't let her fall, either."

Meanwhile, inside the apartment, Melina stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Nancy mumble to herself at the counter, fumbling with a lighter and a bent cigarette.

"You're out again," Melina said flatly. "Rent's due and Michael's already talking about selling Maeve to his friend downtown."

Nancy didn't even look up. "Don't start."

"You're our mother," Melina snapped. "Do something. Say something."

Nancy lit the cigarette with shaking fingers, inhaled deeply, and turned toward her daughter. Her eyes were dull, tired. Empty.

"I didn't ask for you kids. I sure as hell didn't ask for him." Her voice was hoarse. "But I'm here, ain't I? That counts for something."

Melina's face twisted, part heartbreak, part fury. "No. It doesn't."

Behind her, the front door slammed open. Michael's boots hit the floor like thunder. "Where's Maeve?"

Melina's body tensed instantly, stepping between him and the hallway. "Out."

"With who?"

"None of your business."

Michael's lip curled. "She's my daughter. That makes it my business."

"No," Melina said, voice low and cold. "She's mine."

And in that moment, Melina knew something had shifted. She couldn't hold the line much longer — not with Nancy disappearing by the day, and Michael's threats growing bolder.

She had to get Maeve out.

Even if it meant giving up her own escape to do it.