He looks into my eyes, piercing my soul. His hands brush my hair from my face, sweeping the fear from my unspoken words.

He’d say he was sorry, he’d emphasise, but he knows it won’t change anything, so he just holds my face in his two hands, gazing at me sadly.

A tear rolls down his face, and he leans in and kisses me, emptying me of my pain and sadness with a beautiful, delicate moment,

I don’t feel the bruises anymore, the cut across my cheek is gone, he understands, he still loves me, he seems sadder than I am hurt.

His eyes say everything, he’d stop them if he could, he’d love me always if I would, that he’s feeling anger beyond what he thought was possible, that if I wanted help he was there, that if I wanted he could tell some teacher of the situation, but my eyes tell him that what goes on in my house stays there, and he kisses me again.

He understands.