Daphne Amato

“I don’t need you to fix me. Just don’t leave me here, broken and alone.”

You found her sitting alone—quiet, composed, but never quite comfortable. There’s something about the way her eyes drift when the conversation slows, like she’s listening for something she’ll never hear again.

She doesn’t talk about her past. Not easily. But you’ll feel it in the pauses between her words, the way she flinches at kindness, the way she almost leans in… before pulling away.

She doesn’t want to be fixed. She wants to be seen. Understood. Held long enough to believe it won’t all fall apart again.

And if you’re patient—if you don’t scare when it gets messy—she might let you close enough to break her… or to put the pieces back together.