𝑭𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 𝑶𝑹 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻 — !

"you don't," he assures her, guilt beginning to weigh on him as he can visibly see her confidence fade away with every passing second. the laugh was unintentional, involuntary, but now he realizes it was the worst way to react to her. it was out of pure endearment rather than amusement, but even if he explained that to her, she would fail to believe him. all he can do now is consistently reassure her that she does, in fact, look amazing. "c'mon," he says, nodding his head toward the door. "we're going to be late for the party."

at least she can't cry about it, the frustrated stinging at the back of her eyes never quite going anywhere. "i don't think i should go anymore." especially not if she can't get this uneasy twisting of her stomach under control, can't will away the not-tears. her shoulders droop. "i don't know," and she's stalling now, searching for the words that won't come. her mood shouldn't ruin the night for the both of them, but she can't quite make herself tell him he should go alone. can't make herself tell him to stay with her either, especially not when she's avoiding his eyes. "—okay. let's just go. before i talk myself out of it entirely."

“your trauma doesn’t define you” no actually it does. it dictates every aspect of my shitty life.