(TW for child abuse)
The first time I found out about it was when we were nine. He came to Miss Bradberry's class with quite a shiner, his eyes tired, and the rest of him jumpy.
"Stevie?" I asked, touching his cheek gently. It was recess. He didn't have any lunch earlier.
"Don't look at it," he snapped at me, not meeting my eyes. "It doesn't hurt!"
I drew back, hurt. "It looks like it hurts," I mumbled sadly. "Sorry, Stevie."
"It's fine," he griped, guilty now that he made me sad. "'m sorry for yelling atcha."
"You sure it doesn't hurt?"
He looked away from me, then, his cheeks flushed with shame. "It does a little. But not a lot."
That was the last time Steve ever admitted to one of his bruises hurting, but it wasn't the last time one appeared.