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And I’d think—maybe if I just hurt enough on the outside, I’ll stop feeling everything on the inside.

But pain doesn’t save you. It just delays the collapse.

And eventually, the mirror stops lying.

You realize you’re not the victim anymore.

You’re a co-conspirator in your own suffering.

Because you stayed.

Because you let the hurt become routine.

Because you confused punishment with penance.

And the saddest part?

You stopped hoping he’d change.

You just started hoping he’d stop noticing whenyoudid.

I woke up at 3:18 a.m.

I didn’t have to check the clock. I always woke at the same damn time. But this time, it wasn’t the usual silence that pulled me from sleep—it was a voice.

He wasn’t there.

And the voice... it wasn’t his. It was female. Soft. Familiar.

She was singingthatlullaby—the one I used to hum to soothe myself to sleep. But now it wasn’t a comfort. Now, it was calling me.

I sat up, slowly.

My skin prickled with cold. His black shirt clung to me. I didn’t remember putting it on.

I stood, barefoot, each step across the floor a whisper. The house felt different—thicker, slower, like it was watching.

Then I saw her.

A little girl at the end of the hallway.

Her hair was tied in pigtails, swaying as she twirled. She laughed, light and sharp like glass hitting tile. The lullaby slipped from her lips in a singsong voice, sweet and eerie all at once.

And she kept singing.

And I kept walking.

“Hush now, darling, close your eyes,

The stars are whispering lullabies.

Moonlight paints your dreams in gold,

Safe and warm, though nights are cold.”

“Tiptoe shadows, don’t be scared,

Mommy’s gone but someone’s there.