Author's Disclaimer: None of the characters I'm writing about are mine, nor do I own Pretty Little Liars.

Author's Personal Note: I am participating in a 30 day challenge to write about my One True Pair [i.e. OTP] which happens to be Hannily. If anybody has any suggestions to better improve my skills, or anything they would like me to write about, I would be happy for both the criticism and to oblige to your needs. The Hannily fanbase is not large enough for my liking, and I would be honored to add more submissions to our small collection. I hope you enjoy this, and for fair warning, this story does have triggers.

There is a well-known cliché about hands fitting perfectly in one another. In my life, I've never had the small lines on someone's hand align with mine. To me, a hand is similar to a fingerprint. Not one is exactly like the other. Take for example Toby Cavanaugh has callused and clumsy fingers for his carpentry whereas Aria's nimble and tiny fingers are designed for writing. Not to mention the other variables, such as the literal size of palms and wrists, length of each phalange, and freckles.

Before my dad was deployed to Afghanistan, he clasped his enormous hand around mine, telling me that everything would be okay. I guess that's what spawned my fascination with the act of holding hands. I preserved that memory in case he never came back. Probably due to his nervousness, his palms were sweaty and in an effort to calm me down, his thumb traced the back of my hand. He hadn't kissed me before he left; instead he chose his own goodbye of choice. It was completely bizarre and for a while it hurt me. How was it fair that as I was growing up fathers and daughters everywhere bonded? It wasn't, and life was shit. Father's Day was hell. At school they'd make us do projects to give home to our dads and I kept making things hoping he would come back on the most special day of the year. When I got home with bright eyes waiting for him, my mom would have to explain to me every single year that Dad wouldn't be coming home for a while with tears in her eyes. That's why I took such a simple gesture as the most important one in the world, because my dad had made it extraordinary to me.

I tried to recreate the feelings it gave me with friends and family, but it was no use. Each hand had a different texture, a different style. Growing up without a dad and only half of a mom wasn't a walk in the park. I buried myself in swimming and refused for anyone to hold my hand until I was in high school. I'd decided since I couldn't construct the feeling of pure love, I would taint one of the most bittersweet moments of my life. That changed when Ali and I became friends. Every one of those girls was affectionate. Not only that, but they were genuine. Whenever they would perform simple acts such as snuggling or hugging, you could just tell they cared about you. It made you feel loved, it made me feel like I belonged somewhere for the first time in my life.

Hanna and I always seemed to be closer than anybody else in the group, though we didn't act on it. We could pretty much read each other's minds with looks, and with touches and hand gestures, could have secret conversations. Both of us were scared that Alison would kick us out of her group if we became closer to each other than her. Neither of us blamed each other for doing so, the five girls we'd grown to love were a second family, and we didn't want to risk the only place we felt safe. I remember the first time we actually talked, not just those shitty small conversations we had to keep up around the group. It was early in the morning, a school night in a cold month. I remember because she called me crying saying she was outside my door. Normally I would've told her to go home, but Hanna's voice sounded even more self-doubting than usual, and I'd heard her teeth chattering. Instead of taking her home I'd tiptoed down the stairs and let her in. She silenced her tears for a few moments as I lead her up to my bedroom.

As soon as I had shut my door, Hanna engulfed me in a hug. Her tears left tiny splatters on my shoulder, and for a while we stood like that, her arms around my neck and mine respectively gripping her back. After she stopped shaking, I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, (which happened to be a soft blanket) and wrapped it around her. I told her to sit on my bed and she did so. I asked something along the lines of, 'Why are you here?' or, 'What's wrong?' She poured her heart out to me that night. Hanna told me her mom and dad were fighting every night and how she couldn't take it anymore. We talked about how her dad was a douchebag for cheating on Mrs. Marin for a while, but she suddenly changed topics.

"Do you think I'm ugly? Don't lie to me."

Her question startled me. Even though all the guys at Rosewood high were gaga over Ali, Hanna had always been beautiful. She had the cutest button nose, and a stunning set of cyan colored eyes. Her hair was the healthiest I've ever seen, somehow it always managed to look soft and it stayed in place almost perfectly. I didn't hesitate to tell her she was the most beautiful person I'd seen, and it was completely true.

Then she launched into a story about how insecure she was. Hanna couldn't control the volume of her voice as she told me all of the terrible things Ali said about her. She said she felt guilty for eating when Ali called her 'Hefty Hanna' (Something none of the other girls didn't know was going on). Apparently today our wonderful ring leader had told Hanna that she should kill herself so that nobody would have to look at her again. I felt my mouth opening to say something, but Han shushed me, not done with her story yet. She continued to tell me about her constant struggle with bulimia and that Ali had been the one to tell her she needed an eating disorder to be as pretty as she was. Not only this, but every time she purged, she kept track of it on her wrists using a razor.

I felt myself tearing up, not knowing that she was going through so much. I felt guilty for not being able to help her, to stop Alison, to do anything. What she said next is something I never wanted to hear come out of her mouth again. With her puffy eyes and trembling jawline, she looked me in the eyes before she whispered the next part.

"I was going to kill myself tonight."

Surges of emotion rippled through my body. Sorrow for losing somebody who hadn't even died, grief for the pain that must be going on in Hanna's brain. I couldn't pinpoint them all because they were rushing right over my head and filling my veins. She began crying again, and even though it was a gesture I'd avoided my entire life, I reached across the bed and held onto her hand as tightly as I could. I tried my hardest to convey everything I was thinking, and how much I cared about her by wiping away each tear from her face.

"Don't ever leave me, okay? You're important to me. I need you."

Hanna slowly nodded her head, and still seeing the hurt and fear in her eyes, I let go of her hand for a moment. Silently asking for permission, I slowly unraveled her right sleeve, knowing she was left-handed. There weren't many scabs, but they were thick and it looked like they had been painful. I knelt beside her on my bedside and kissed each and every cut I could see. When I was done, I held her hand again, letting the silence make up for everything words couldn't convey. Neither of us slept that night, minds racing and hearts heavy with a solemn tone. Instead, I comforted her the best way I knew how. My hand consumed hers, and I rubbed tiny circles around the back of her hand.

Ever since that night, holding hands has been our thing. We reserved it for each other, and sometimes we did it subconsciously. Even when I told her I was lesbian, she didn't mind and she held my hand in public anyways. Sometimes I could see her breaking, and I knew exactly what to do to help her. It wasn't just a thing we did when we were feeling down though. It was also a motion we used to express our happiness. If I'd done well at a swim meet, when I was done, she'd take my hand and squeeze it lightly. Sometimes I would remind her how beautiful she was and how much I was grateful she was still here. She'd get this sly grin on her face and swing our arms up and down in lieu of a response. It was the only answer I'd ever need from Hanna.