He trains you to crave the silence.
I want to stop.
But I can’t.
Because buried halfway down the page is another post. Short. Colder.
Just one line.
She’ll come to him. They always do.
My heart slams.
Because he’s right.
I haven’t called the police. I haven’t run. I haven’t screamed or smashed or told a soul. I’ve stayed. I’ve stared at screens.I’ve searched forums. I’ve waited for a message and hated that it didn’t come.
I’ve made myself available.
I’ve made myself easy.
And somewhere, he’s watching.
Smiling.
Knowing this is the part where the heroine always thinks she still has a choice.
I push back from the desk so fast the chair tips and hits the floor. I stumble over it, breathing too hard, too loud, my pulse everywhere — my wrists, my throat, the hollow ache between my legs that hasn’t gone away since he looked at me like he already owned it.
I go to the sink.
Turn on the tap.
Let the water run until it’s ice.
Then I splash it against my face, again and again, until all I can feel is cold and skin and the guilt sinking into me like rot in fresh fruit.
Because I shouldn’t want to see him again.
I shouldn’t want to hear that voice in person, see what he looks like when he’s not holding back, find out what he’ll do when I stop fighting and just let it happen.
But I do.
God help me, I do.
I want to touch the fire.
Even if it burns me beyond recognition.
Even if I never come back the same.
Even if I end up another whisper on a dead thread that girls read late at night when they think it’s just a story.
I stare at the mirror.
And I don’t recognise the girl looking back at me.
Because she’s not scared anymore.
