I look at his silhoutte in the dark and damp room.

I study the slope of his nose and the way his chest move when breathing.

He is undeniably handsome, even in the dark. His face is the one you see often on television. The one that you think is not real and only exist in front of camera.

I turn away my gaze from him. My eyes fall on my wrist, which partly visible by the lights peeking from the curtain's slits. I look at my brand new tattoo.

A butterfly.

What a joke.

I will never be as pretty, nor as free.

I wonder who is to blame in this scenario. Me or him? Me who is struggling not to let a sound while crying, or the man beside me who pretend to sleep and not hearing my silent sob?