#cherxwine

I asked my little brother for his favorite 67 pic for this

There’s a certain quiet you’ve learned to recognize, the kind that settles into the apartment when she’s not there. It doesn't feel empty, not to you. There are so many pieces of her surrounding the space; to you, it feels like she's left her mark all around.

You're feeling that tonight when you're sitting comfortably on the couch, deep into your book, when the sound of the front door opening pulls your focus. 

Baran enters quietly, her movements slow and delicate. You slip a bookmark in between the pages and set your book down on the table in front of you. 

When she walks in, you notice something is off.

It’s the way she moves, careful and deliberate, like she’s holding herself together in places you can’t quite figure out yet.

You know something’s wrong, but you don’t ask right away. You’ve learned that about her: pushing only makes her retreat further into herself.

And Baran is not avoidant, not with you, but she lets you in slowly; she needs a second to set things down, to breathe, to decide how to say it.

“You didn't have to wait up for me.” She says softly as she puts her things away with slow movements. 

“I wanted to.” You stand and move into the kitchen, giving her space in the way you’ve learned she needs it, and pull dinner from the fridge. The quiet hum of the microwave fills the silence. 

She sits at the table, her hands folded tightly in front of her. “Kaveh is staying with his dad for an extra day.” Her voice is barely heard over the quiet sound of the microwave. 

You glance at her after she speaks; you watch the way she's holding herself so carefully.

“I'm sorry, I know you wanted time with him tonight.” You keep your voice low and steady, setting the plate down in front of her, along with a glass of water. 

You sit beside her, her hand brushing your back. “Thank you,” she mumbles quietly. You mindlessly scroll through your phone, your presence acting as silent support until she's ready.

That’s also something you’ve learned with her: that silence isn't always absence.

You sit close enough that she can reach you if she needs to, but far enough that she's not feeling suffocated.

She eats more than you expect her to; her movements are slow and deliberate. The fork scrapes lightly against the plate before she sets it down, her shoulders rising and falling with a steadying breath.

“I’ve got it." you say gently, already standing, reaching for her plate.

The second your fingers brush the edge, her hand moves too.

"I can do it.” Her voice was quiet and controlled, something else underneath it. 

She felt like she needed to still be capable of something small.

“I know you can." you say softly, stepping back instead of pushing.

She nods faintly, moving to the kitchen to dispose of the waste; the trash lid opens with a dull click. She scrapes what’s left into it quickly, moving to the sink in a few strides. 

Water runs over the plate, a steady stream that fills the room. She focuses on it, eyes fixed downward, like if she keeps her attention there long enough, everything else will stay contained.

You get up from your spot and move closer to her. By the time you reach her, she’s already set the plate aside, turning off the faucet.

She dries her hands with a towel, slower than necessary, dragging it over fingers and palms. You stand behind her for a moment before breaking the silence. “Baran.” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. 

She stills before turning to face you. There’s just a quiet pause, like she’s gathering the pieces before she hands them over. 

When her eyes meet yours, you can see the exhaustion, the dark circles that sit underneath, and the red that has stained the whites of her eyes. 

“I had two seizures today.” She says plainly, her eyes now shifting to look at something else. 

Your breath catches that. “That must have been scary.” 

Her jaw tightens before she speaks again. 

“I haven’t had one in a year.” Her voice is even, but softer now, worn thin at the edges. “I don’t know what changed.” 

A small shaky breath leaves her lips. “I’ve done everything right. I take my meds, I track everything, I'm careful,” she pauses, “and it still happened.”

You move your hands up slowly to hold her elbows; her breath stutters before her eyes meet yours again, something fragile breaking open at the surface. 

She lets the tears fall again for the second time tonight, allowing you to hold her through it rather than the cold of the leather seats in her car.

You know how hard she fights to stay grounded, how much she carries every day and if you could take the hurt from you would.

You know that she feels like she can’t lean on anyone, that this is her mess and she needs to handle it alone. Because only she can trust herself.

You close the space between you, wrapping your arms firmly around her. Your hand smooths over her curls as you whisper soft praises into her skin. 

“I know, honey, I know.” You say, your lips pressed against her temple. Her hold on you remains firm as her body trembles against yours, the tears coming harder now.

“I can’t be the one making decisions for people if my own body won’t even listen to me.” She whispers suddenly, her voice breaking into something sharper.

For a moment, it sounds less like frustration and more like fear of herself. The fear of losing everything she's worked so hard for, her not trusting the version of her that exists after today.

“I know," you say softly, your hand still moving through her hair. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“I’m just tired of this." she says suddenly, voice hoarse and small, her tears slowing. 

You didn't interrupt her and let her continue on; the tension hangs in the air between you, your hand now working slow strokes down her back.

“I just want it to stop feeling like I have to earn my place over and over again just to keep it.” She whispers. 

Her words make your chest ache because, to you, she's never been anything less than extraordinary. To you she's a loving partner, mother, friend, doctor, and person. To you she's smart, trustworthy, and patient. To you, she's perfect. and you hate the way she has to do so much more just to be seen as an equal.

She pulls back just slightly, her hands coming up to wipe at her cheeks, brushing away the remaining tears.

You follow the movement, and your hands come up to hold her face, thumbs resting just beneath her eyes, catching what’s left before they can fall.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me," you say softly.

She leans into your hands then, letting you carry some of the weight with her. 

You pull back, your hands falling down to hold hers, your thumb rubbing soft circles against her knuckle. 

“We don’t have to solve all of this tonight,” you say softly. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

She exhales a shaky breath, her eyes finding yours as you let your words settle. 

“I'll drive you,” you add. "To work, to your appointments, to the store—wherever you need to go. And we'll adjust; we’ll figure out what you need and what makes things easier. There’s always a way forward, even if it looks different for a while.” You say softly, pausing again. 

“You’re still you, and whatever comes next, we'll handle it together," you add, softer now.

A long, quiet exhale leaves her, the grip she held on your hands now loosening.

“Okay,” she murmurs, barely audible.

You press a soft kiss to the top of her head, pulling her just a little closer.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, guiding her into another hug.

The two of you stand there for a few seconds before you pull back and speak.

“Hey,” you murmur softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, your fingers lingering there for just a second. “Let’s get you into a shower, yeah? Then we’ll go to bed.”

She huffs a quiet breath, a small laugh breaking through. “So now I smell?” she murmurs, a faint, teasing edge breaking through her voice. “That bad, huh?”

You smile softly, brushing your thumb once more along her cheek. “Devastating, actually.”

She shakes her head and lets out a quiet, but real, laugh at that. 

Her smile lingers just a moment longer before it softens into something more. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

You lean in, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead.

“Always.”

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also I want to add a minor discussion. I do think that baran drove herself home that night. im sure most of you have seen the interviews where she talks about the scene that was cut from that shot, since she denied help from her ex husband, I really think she pushed everything down again after she cried and just slowly drove home.

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