I never asked her about her bruises.

She caught me looking once, and adjusted her skirt so they weren't visible anymore. She didn't say anything about it and neither did I. There was a story there, just like there's a story to everything. It was probably trivial. Fell down drunk at a party, perhaps. The important thing was I never asked. That's a story that I would never know.

There's probably hundreds of those. Most of it I have no reason to know. But it's there, and I was curious, but I couldn't ask. I felt like it might be intrusive, which seems like a bad reason. She could always say no. Or she could let me in. We could share that little story. It could be our secret.

Or it could have been nothing at all. I'll never know. The only moment we shared is one where neither of us acknowledged it at all, which mostly just makes me feel lonely. It's so trivial and I could have said it without any fear of repercussions. It would have been so easy.

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