They say she’s fragile. That she’s soft-spoken, too trusting, too gentle for this world. They say she needs to toughen up, learn to bite back, stop giving second chances to people who only ever take.

They don’t know her like I do.

I’ve seen her hold grief in her palms like river stones, smooth and worn from years of carrying. I’ve watched her stitch hope into broken places with nothing but threadbare kindness and stubborn grace. She’s not fragile. She’s forged.

But that doesn’t mean the world won’t try to break her.

So I watch. I listen. I stand between her and the sharp edges. I memorize the way her shoulders tense when someone raises their voice, the way her smile falters when she’s interrupted mid-thought. I know the difference between her “I’m fine” and her “I’m surviving.” I know when she needs tea and silence, and when she needs someone to rage on her behalf.

I’ve scared off more than a few people. The ones who saw her glow and thought it meant she’d illuminate their darkness. The ones who mistook her softness for submission. I don’t apologize for it. If you want her light, you better know how to tend it—not snuff it out.

She doesn’t know the half of it. How many times I’ve intercepted the cruel words, the manipulations, the subtle digs. How many times I’ve stood in the shadows, ready to burn the world down if it meant keeping her safe.

She thinks I’m just her friend. Her quiet guardian. Her steady presence.

But I am the storm that waits behind her calm.

And if anyone ever dares to hurt her again, they’ll learn what it means to face someone who loves like a shield and strikes like a blade.