The same hallway. The same walls. The same architecture.
But everything felt heavier.
More guarded.
I followed at a measured distance.
My eyes stayed deliberately focused on the floor instead of the environment.
Not because I was overwhelmed.
But because I didn’t want nostalgia interfering with objectivity.
The hallway still faintly carried the scent of jasmine.
I recognized it immediately.
It was the candle I used to burn during the first few weeks of our marriage.
I had convinced myself that scent would soften the atmosphere.
Make the house feel like home.
Make him feel approachable.
Make us feel like something real.
Forty-eight hours after our vows, I had confessed I loved him.
It had been reckless. Emotional.
Driven by hope.
He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t rejected it.
He had simply stared at me — absorbing the confession like it was a secret weapon.
Now, walking through this corridor again, that memory made heat rise to my cheeks.
Not from embarrassment.
But from the realization of how young and naïve I had been.
I had believed love could override power structures.
I had believed emotion could dissolve hierarchy.
Instead, it had made me vulnerable.
My fist clenched so hard my nails dug into my skin that I felt it break.
The sting grounded me — temporarily.
But the memory that had triggered it didn’t fade.
It came crashing in anyway.
Prison.
