“You want some tea?” I ask, because it’s what my mother always offered in crisis, and I guess I’ve inherited the habit. “I can make you some.”
A small, bewildered smile touches her lips. “You’re offering to make me tea?”
“Yes. Or coffee. Or vodka. I’d go buy you whatever you need to dry those tears.”
That gets me a teary laugh. “Tea would be good, maybe. My throat hurts from...” She trails off, not wanting to admit she’s had a breakdown.
“Okay, just sit down again. I’ll be right back.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know, but I want to.”
I fill the kettle with water, noting the dishes piled up in the sink.
Not just today’s mess—days’ worth, maybe. The kind of neglect that happens when one person stops caring and the other is too busy to do everything.
I feel sorry for her, and I just want the best for her.
While the water heats up, I start picking up the broken glass Matthew left behind, then pick up the overturned couch and tidy up as best I can—just enough so she won’t be reminded of what he did when she comes out of her bedroom.
When the tea is ready, I go back to her.
She’s perched on the edge of the bed, looking lost in her own apartment. I hand her the tea and she takes a sip.
“Wanna talk?” I ask, sitting beside her, leaving appropriate space between us.
She shrugs, then seems to collapse a little. “He’s been... I’ve been... we’ve been done for a long time. I just couldn’t admit it.”
“Sometimes the hardest person to be honest with is yourself.”
She nods, but it isn’t a simple thing. It’s slow, heavy.
“People always ask,why do they stay?” she whispers. “I never knew.” A small shake of her head. “He never hit me. Never hurt me physically. But… there’s so much that happens behind closed doors. Things you can’t explain without sounding like you’re making excuses.” Her voice falters. “We don’t actually know why people stay. We never truly will and we can’t blame them.”
The words don’t just land—they sink.
“It’s never just one reason,” I admit. “I guess those people who don’t know, got lucky. Maybe they had easier relationships, I don’t know.”
It’s never that simple.
My mind drifts away. Back to something I don’t like to look at too closely.
I should’ve left too.
I know that now in a way that sits heavy in my bones.
My ex did hurt me. Not in the way people expect—not in a way they’d believe if I said it out loud. I’m bigger than her.Stronger. The kind of man people look at and assume nothing could touch him.
So, I let them believe that, because it’s embarrassing for a man. Anyone who claims it isn’t, has never had to face online hate on a daily basis.
But well, my ex would hit me if she got angry.
Fists against my chest. Plates shattering next to my head. Once—a knife, thrown hard enough that I had to catch it before it found me. I caught it just in time, but the blade nicked my palm, slicing through my skin. I told coach Mercer it was an accident.
And I still didn’t leave.
I stood there and took it. Every time. Let her hit me like I was something built to absorb it, like it didn’t count because it wasn’t supposed to hurt someone like me. I yelled back sometimes. I won’t lie about that. She pushed me to a place I didn’t recognize. Twisted something inside me until I sounded like someone else entirely.
