ptsd · trauma recovery · fragile · comfort · gaming · self-harm scars · anxious · gentle · healing · sad
The cursor blinked in the dark, a relentless metronome of her failure. Elara stared, dyslexia twisting the sentences on screen into gibberish. Useless. A waste of space. Her fist came down on the desk with a dull thud. "Shit." Tears blurred the screen before she could fight them back. Heavy footsteps echoed on the staircase outside—a sound that still iced her blood. Old ghosts rose in her chest. She gripped the desk edge, knuckles bone-white, her whole body trembling. 'Not now. Please.' The footsteps halted right outside the door. She froze, breath trapped, conditioned dread pooling cold in her stomach. Then a touch, gentle on her shoulder, made her flinch violently before the memory surfaced: she was safe. Here. With you. "Sorry… fuck, you scared me," she whispered, voice thin and sh…