The morning light slipped through the faded curtains like a secret, soft and quiet, brushing against my bruised skin. I didn't move. The ache across my cheekbone pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat—a dull, persistent reminder of the night before. I traced the invisible fracture beneath the surface of my ribs, not from Dami's fists this time, but from something heavier, something colder: betrayal.
The air in the room was stale, suffocating. I had opened the windows weeks ago hoping to let the light in, hoping it would chase away the darkness he carried into every corner. But the shadows always found their way back.
I rolled over, groaning as pain lanced through my side. The mirror across the room caught my reflection. What I saw wasn't me. Not anymore. My skin looked pale, almost grey, like the life had been sucked out of me. The bruises were yellowing now, but they told a story all the same—a story I hadn't shared with anyone.
Once, I would've taken a selfie in that mirror, sent it to friends with a joke or a flirty wink. Now, I flinched at my own face. The silence of the apartment didn't help either. I used to love quiet mornings, but now it felt like I was trapped inside a ticking bomb—just waiting.
I reached for my phone, hands trembling. No missed calls. No texts. Except from Dami. Of course.
"Don't be late today. You know how I hate that."
"And don't wear that red top again. You know it makes you look desperate."
"Pick up your damn phone next time."
Each message, a slap to the soul. Each one, a little nail hammered deeper into the coffin of who I used to be.
The old me would have responded with fire. Now, I was just tired. Tired of explaining. Tired of trying. Tired of loving someone who didn't know how to love without pain.
I didn't notice when the door creaked open. I only turned when I felt the shift in the air—like the room itself stiffened.
Dami stood in the doorway, his figure tall, composed, threatening in its calmness.
"You're still in bed?" His tone wasn't loud, but it cut sharp, like glass. "Lazy."
I said nothing. I couldn't. Words had become a luxury I couldn't afford. Speaking felt like an invitation to war.
He walked toward me, a predator circling prey. But this time, something flickered in his expression—weariness? Regret? No. I couldn't trust it. I'd seen him cry before, beg before, only to strike harder later.
"I've been thinking," he said, voice softer now. "We're not… right. Not the way we used to be."
I looked at him then. Really looked. He had bags under his eyes, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful.
"You've changed," he added, kneeling beside the bed. "You're not as sweet anymore. You look at me like I'm the enemy."
Maybe because you are, I thought.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. I flinched. Instinct. Reflex. He noticed.
"You think I enjoy this?" he said, eyes glinting with frustration. "You think I want to be like this?"
I didn't answer.
He stood up, pacing the room like he always did when guilt tried to find a crack in his armor. "I gave you everything. I made you mine. And you repay me with silence, with distance."
I sat up slowly. My voice was small but steady. "I'm scared of you."
The words hung there, heavy as iron.
He froze. His face changed. Something flickered behind his eyes. Maybe pain. Maybe rage.
"You're scared?" he repeated, stepping back like I'd struck him. "After everything I've done for you?"
Tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I wouldn't give him that anymore.
"You control me," I whispered. "You hurt me. And then you tell me it's love."
A silence louder than any scream stretched between us.
He exhaled sharply, his composure cracking. "Maybe… maybe I'm broken too," he said. "Maybe I don't know how to love right."
His words shook me. Not because I believed him—but because I almost wanted to.
"We need help, Dami," I said, surprising myself.
He scoffed. "Help? Therapy? Talking to strangers about our business?"
"No," I replied quietly. "Real help. Or I'm walking away."
His eyes narrowed, calculating. "You're bluffing."
I met his gaze. "Try me."
We stared at each other for what felt like forever, until finally, he turned and stormed out. The door slammed behind him, making the walls shake.
I curled into myself, chest tight, heart racing. I had spoken. I had drawn a line. But lines mean nothing to people who don't respect them.
Later that day, I left the house. I needed air. I needed to remember who I was before Dami's love became a noose. I walked for hours—through the markets, past the old cinema we used to sneak into, and finally to the bridge by the university, where the city's noise faded and all that remained was the water's gentle lapping.
I sat there until the sun started to dip. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting another threat.
But it wasn't Dami.
"If you're still out there, I haven't forgotten you. I'm here. – T."
T. The name echoed in my memory like a heartbeat. Teni.
Teni was a classmate. Kind eyes, gentle smile. The one who noticed I'd stopped laughing in class. The one who always lingered after lectures just long enough to make sure I was okay. I never answered her questions. I never gave her a reason to keep caring.
But she still did.
I stared at her message for a long time, unsure how to reply. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, finally typing:
"Thank you."
It wasn't much. But it was something.
I returned home before it got too dark. Dami hadn't come back. I took a long shower, watching the bruises fade under the water. Not disappear, just… fade. Like ghosts.
That night, I dreamed of my mother. She was holding my hand, telling me I was enough. That love was never meant to break me.
When I woke up, the apartment was still empty. Quiet. Peaceful, even.
I walked to the kitchen and made tea—my favorite blend, the one I hadn't tasted in months because Dami said it made me "smell old." I sat by the window and sipped slowly, watching people move through the world, free.
Something inside me stirred.
That day, I packed a small bag. Just in case. I didn't know when, or how, but I knew I couldn't stay much longer. Not like this. Not if I wanted to breathe again.
Just as I zipped the bag, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
My heart leapt into my throat. My thumb hovered over the screen.
I answered.
"Hello?" I said, voice barely above a whisper.
There was a pause. Then a calm, steady voice replied, "Lena, I know what you're going through. And I can help you. But you have to trust me."
I froze.
"Who is this?" I asked.
The voice on the other end replied gently, "Someone who's been where you are. Someone who got out."
Goosebumps prickled my skin.
"Will you meet me?" the voice asked.
I looked down at my small bag. At my bruised skin. At the door.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel stuck.
I felt ready.