Roy's Eyes

Michelle sat curled in the far stall of the staff washroom, her back pressed against the cool metal divider, her elbows braced on her knees as she tried to steady her breathing. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, too bright, too clinical, reflecting off the pale tile floors and making the small room feel exposed even in its emptiness.

She had already clocked out. She had done it with shaking hands, barely remembering the numbers she'd pressed into the keypad, her vision still blurred by tears she refused to let spill until she was somewhere hidden.

Now she was hidden.

Mostly.

The crying came in waves. It would ease for a few minutes, leaving her hollow and exhausted, then crest again without warning, squeezing her chest until she had to press her sleeve against her mouth to keep from making noise.

Her mother's voice kept replaying in her head, sharp and merciless, echoing across the polished floors of the sales department where customers and coworkers alike had turned to stare.

Slut.

The word still burned.

Michelle squeezed her eyes shut, her throat tightening again. She had never heard her mother speak like that before. Not about her. Not about anyone. Her mom could be strict, stubborn, even loud when she was upset, but she had never been cruel.

Until today.

Michelle swallowed hard, pressing the heel of her hand against her eyes as another rush of tears threatened. She **** herself to breathe slowly, in through her nose, out through her mouth, just like her dad had taught her when she was little and nightmares used to wake her up.

She had changed into casual clothes after clocking out, pulling jeans and a soft sweater from her suitcase with clumsy, trembling fingers. She was grateful now, deeply, unexpectedly grateful, that Roy had insisted she bring it. The thought steadied her a little. She didn't want to walk through the store in uniform, didn't want anyone thinking she was still working, still available for gossip or pity or awkward silence.

She wanted to disappear.

To blend in.

To walk out like she was just another customer who had never existed behind a cash register.

Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her sweater as her thoughts circled back, unwilling to leave her alone.

The worst part hadn't even been what her mother said about her.

It had been what she said about Roy.

Roy.

The name alone softened something inside her, like a warm light pushing against the darkness crowding her chest.

Gentle Roy. Kind Roy. Patient Roy. Her Roy.

Her mother had called him a predator again. A groomer. The words had been spat out like poison, loud enough that Michelle was certain half the store had heard them. And then she had added more. New words. Meaner words.

Pathetic.

Loser.

Waste of space.

Michelle felt fresh heat flare behind her eyes. She pressed her lips together, shaking her head fiercely in the empty stall as if she could physically reject the memory.

How could she say those things? How could anyone say those things about him?

She hadn't even tried to know him. Hadn't given him a single fair chance. She had just looked at him, judged him, decided who he was without ever seeing the way he listened when Michelle talked, or how careful he was with her feelings, or how quickly he showed up when she needed him.

Sitting there alone, knees pulled close, Michelle felt as though she were staring down a long, narrow tunnel that stretched into her future. And in that future, her mother wasn't there. The thought startled her, made her chest ache with a complicated mixture of grief and clarity. She didn't want that. She didn't want to lose her mom. She loved her. She always had.

But she couldn't imagine giving up Roy either.

The tunnel narrowed further in her mind, focusing until it held only one steady truth.

A future with Roy.

Always Roy.

She exhaled slowly, her shoulders lowering as the thought settled into something solid and certain. The world might feel like it was spinning out of control, but that one thing anchored her. She couldn't believe how lucky she was to have him. She had called him in tears, falling apart, and he hadn't hesitated. He hadn't questioned her or told her to calm down or asked if it could wait.

He had left work.

For her.

Her chest swelled with warmth that chased back the last lingering edges of panic. He would be here soon. Her man. Coming to take care of her. The idea wrapped around her like a blanket, comforting and secure.

She could already picture going back to his apartment. Back to his quiet hallway, his warm bed, the soft, steady presence of him beside her. She imagined unpacking her suitcase again, this time folding her clothes into his drawers, leaving her things scattered naturally through his space until it wasn't just his apartment anymore.

It would be their home.

And she wouldn't leave again. Not if she could help it. Whatever Roy needed from her to make her welcome there, she would do it without hesitation. It wasn't desperation. It didn't feel like that to her. It felt like certainty. Like understanding something essential about herself.

She couldn't imagine being truly happy in a world where Roy wasn't part of it.

A practical thought slipped in, tentative but persistent. Would he charge her rent? He might. He had every right to. The idea didn't upset her the way she might have expected. It made sense. Adults shared responsibilities. If that meant her college plans got pushed back a year or two, that was fine.

Being with Roy was worth more than college.

She reached up and grabbed a wad of toilet paper from the roll, carefully dabbing beneath her eyes, then along her cheeks. The tears had slowed now, replaced by a tender, swollen heaviness that made her face feel tight. She imagined what she must look like: red-rimmed eyes, blotchy skin, exhaustion clinging to her like a second sweater.

For a moment, she considered stepping out to the mirror, fixing her hair, reapplying a little makeup, making herself look brighter, prettier, more put together for him.

The thought fluttered uncertainly, then faded.

Roy loved her. He had seen her crying, shaking, terrified, and he had still opened his door to her in the middle of the night. He would accept her exactly as she was.

Tonight, she decided, she would ask if she could cook for him. Something nice. Something special. She pictured herself moving around his kitchen, chopping vegetables, stirring sauce, setting plates carefully at the table. She would thank him properly. Not just with words. She would take care of him the way he took care of her.

She would serve him. Make his life easier. Make him feel appreciated. Important. Like a king.

Her king.

Her phone buzzed suddenly in her hand, the sound sharp and startling in the quiet washroom. Michelle sucked in a breath, her heart jumping as she looked down at the screen.

Roy: I'm here.

Relief flooded her so quickly it made her dizzy. She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to start crying again, but this time the tears that threatened felt lighter, almost joyful.

She stood slowly, smoothing her sweater down over her hips, then reaching for her suitcase handle. Her fingers trembled, but she tightened her grip, forcing strength into them.

She took one steadying breath.

Then another.

She unlocked the stall and stepped out into the empty washroom, avoiding the mirror as she crossed to the door. She didn't need to see herself right now. She knew who she was. She was someone who was loved.

The thought lifted her chin slightly as she pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway leading back into the store. The sounds of customers and registers and distant announcements washed over her immediately, but she kept walking, shoulders squared, steps quick but deliberate.

She wouldn't draw attention to herself, but she wouldn't hide either.

Her mother's voice tried to rise again in her memory, sharp and condemning, but Michelle pushed it aside. It didn't matter what her mother thought.

In Roy's eyes, she had value.

And those were the only eyes that mattered.