Rhea stayed locked inside the bathroom stall long after the sounds outside faded.
Her cries had gone quiet now — not because the pain stopped, but because her throat was too raw to keep breaking.
Her hands moved desperately.
She tore more paper towels from the dispenser, layering them again and again, pressing them hard against her skin. She wrapped her scarf tightly around her waist, knotting it with shaking fingers, hoping pressure would do what tears couldn't.
It didn't.
The fabric darkened almost immediately.
"No… please," she whispered, voice hoarse, breath uneven. "Just stop."
Her hands were slick. Red stained her fingers, her palms, the edge of her skirt. It kept slipping no matter how tight she held it, no matter how hard she pressed.
Her back slid down the wall until she was curled on the floor again, knees drawn up, shoulders shaking.
She tried to breathe properly.
In. Out.
Like she used to when things got bad.
But every breath felt like it cut her open further.
Her vision blurred — tiles doubling, then tripling — and she laughed weakly at that too.
"Even my body's giving up on me," she murmured bitterly.
Tears dripped down onto her hands, mixing with the blood. She wiped her face roughly, frustrated with herself for still crying when this was exactly what she had earned.
This is punishment, she told herself.
This is balance.
She tightened the wrap again, wincing, jaw clenched so hard it ached. Pain shot through her abdomen, sharp and nauseating, but she welcomed it — pain felt cleaner than regret.
"I didn't scream," she whispered again, like a prayer.
"I didn't embarrass you. I didn't make you look cruel."
Her chest tightened painfully.
"You don't even know," she said softly, voice breaking again. "And maybe that's better."
Her head fell back against the stall door. The cold metal seeped into her skin, grounding her just enough to stay conscious.
Time stretched.
Minutes blurred.
Her hands trembled from holding pressure too long. Her arms ached. Her breathing grew shallow, exhaustion creeping in like a tide she couldn't fight.
Still, the blood didn't stop.
Fear finally slipped past her self-blame.
What if this doesn't stop?
What if I pass out here and no one finds me?
She shook her head quickly, forcing herself to stay awake.
"No," she whispered firmly to herself. "Not like this."
She wiped her eyes again, smearing tears uselessly, and tried to stand. Her legs wobbled immediately, forcing her to grip the stall wall.
She rested her forehead against it, eyes closed, breathing hard.
"Just hold on," she whispered. "Just a little longer."
Outside, footsteps passed. Laughter echoed faintly.
No one came in.
Rhea swallowed, steadying herself, and tightened the wrap one more time — harder than before — ignoring the pain that made her gasp.
She would not scream.
She would not call Ling's name.
She would not give anyone else power over this moment.
So she stayed there, bleeding quietly, crying silently, holding herself together with nothing but stubbornness —
alone in a locked stall,
trying to stop something that refused to listen,
paying for love with her body,
and for revenge with her soul.
Ling pushed open the bathroom door without knocking.
The sound echoed.
Too loud.
Too final.
Rhea was there.
Curled against the wall of the stall, skirt stained, hands shaking, eyes red and swollen from crying. She froze the moment she saw Ling — like an animal caught under headlights.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Ling's breath left her in a sharp, broken pull.
"Rhea…" her voice cracked before she could stop it.
Rhea recoiled instantly.
"No—" she whispered, panic flooding her face. "Please don't—don't come close."
Ling took one step forward.
Rhea scrambled backward, her back hitting the wall hard enough to make her flinch. Her hands came up defensively, shaking.
"Please," Rhea cried, tears spilling again. "Please don't touch me. I swear— I don't want to get hurt anymore."
Her voice broke completely.
"It's hurting," she sobbed. "It really hurts."
Ling stopped.
Her body went rigid, like she'd been struck.
She looked down then — really looked.
The blood.
The trembling.
The way Rhea was holding herself together like she might fall apart if Ling breathed too close.
Ling's chest tightened violently.
"I—" Ling tried to speak, but nothing came out right.
Rhea shook her head over and over, tears streaming freely now. "I didn't make a sound," she said desperately. "I didn't tell anyone. I swear. You don't have to do anything else."
Ling's throat burned.
"Do you think…" Ling whispered, voice unsteady, "…that I came here to hurt you again?"
Rhea didn't answer.
She just cried harder.
That silence crushed Ling more than any accusation could have.
Ling sank slowly to her knees in front of her, keeping distance, hands clenched into fists at her sides like she was afraid of them.
"I didn't know," Ling said hoarsely. "I swear to you—I didn't know."
Rhea laughed weakly through tears, shaking her head. "That's the worst part," she whispered. "You didn't even know."
Ling flinched.
Her eyes dropped to Rhea's hands, still pressing desperately, failing.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Ling asked, her voice breaking apart.
Rhea looked at her then — really looked — eyes red, hollow, exhausted.
"Because you didn't want to hear anything from me," she said softly. "And because… I deserve this."
Ling's breath hitched sharply.
"No," she said immediately. "Don't say that."
Rhea closed her eyes, sobbing. "You already think I ruined you. I won. I broke you. What difference does this make?"
Ling reached out instinctively — then stopped herself mid-air, her hand trembling.
"May I?" Ling asked quietly. Not commanding. Not ordering. Asking.
Rhea hesitated, breathing uneven, fear and pain written across her face. Slowly, she nodded.
Ling moved carefully then — slower than she ever had in her life. She took off her jacket and held it out, not touching yet.
"Let me help," she said, voice low and raw. "Please."
Rhea's shoulders collapsed inward as she broke down completely, crying into her hands.
"I didn't want you to see me like this," she whispered. "I didn't want to be weak in front of you."
Ling swallowed hard, tears slipping free now without shame.
"You were never weak," Ling said, voice shaking. "You were just… alone."
She gently helped Rhea wrap the jacket tighter, her movements precise, careful, reverent — like she was handling something fragile she had almost destroyed.
Rhea hissed softly in pain.
"I'm sorry," Ling said instantly, pulling back. "I'm so sorry."
Rhea shook her head. "I don't know how to stop loving you," she cried.
Ling closed her eyes briefly, her forehead lowering until it rested against the stall wall — close, but not touching Rhea.
"I don't know how to stop either," Ling whispered. "And that's what scares me."
They stayed like that — broken, shaking, breathing the same air —
not healed,
not forgiven,
but finally seeing each other in the wreckage.
And for the first time since the night everything shattered, Ling wasn't angry.
She was terrified.