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I told him I loved him last night.

But now... now I’m not sure I meant it.

Maybe I said it because I was afraid.

Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being unloved.

Did I ever actually love him?

Or was I just scared of the silence?

I knew I didn’t love him.

But when you’ve got nothing, sometimes you start convincing yourself thatsomethingis better thannothing at all.

This time, I shoved him hard.

His back hit the wall with a dull thud. And when his eyes locked onto mine, I knew what was coming.

So I shrugged, murmuring, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

“You better be, bitch,” he snarled.

He stormed forward, grabbed me, spun me, and slammed me against the wall. His palm pressed into my throat. Fingers digging into the skin, cutting off breath, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Desperate. Silent. Useless.

Just when I braced for the worst—another long night of bruises and pretending—he let go.

Pushed me away as I disgusted him.

“I’m taking a shower. Make us something to eat.”

And just like that, he was gone.

And I’d apologized?Me?

What the hell was I sorry for?

My hands went to my neck, covering the red-hot ache he left behind, steadying my breath like it could make the shame go away.

I hated myself for it. Every inch.

In the kitchen, I stared at the cabinets. They stared back like they knew. Like they’d seen this all before. One tear slipped free.

Before it hit the floor, I wiped it away.

Hewasn’t worth the tear. ButIwas.

I moved toward the sink, grabbed a pot from the upper cupboard, dropped it in with a hollow clang, and turned on the tap. Water rushed out, echoing against metal. I held the pot like it might keep me from falling apart, fingers tightening around it like a lifeline. And my thoughts—like they always did—drifted to my mother.

She stayed with my father until one day, her heart gave out. Not from love. From fear.

I tilted my head and caught sight of a white envelope near the fridge, half-tucked into the mail basket. On it were bold red letters.

That wasn’t there before.

Troy never touched the mail. That was always my job. I knew what came in, and what went out. And Ineverplaced that letter there.

Something twisted in me.