Page 53

There's no space left between us. No room to move, no room to breathe.

Inside, something cracks. Not fear. Not submission. Something colder. Clearer. A knowing. Because he’s wrong. I’m still standing. And I won’t let him tear me down just to feel taller.

"David." My voice breaks, shatters, but somehow it doesn’t waver. I meet his eyes, even as tears blur mine. "Let. Go."

A long, brutal beat. His grip holds steady, digging in, the threat unspoken but heavy in the air between us.

“Let. Go.” I say again. Firmer this time.

And then finally.

He lets go.

Not gently. Not apologetically. He throws my wrist aside like something dirty, something used up.

I stumble back, clutching the aching joint to my chest, fighting to stay upright as the wall lurches sideways around me.

David just stands there, chest heaving, jaw set, like he’s the one who’s been wronged.

And in that breathless, broken space between his fingers falling away and the ache blooming in my wrist. I know.

This is the line. The one I can’t uncross. All the lies. The gaslighting. The apologies soaked in guilt.

I spent years trying to hold it together. Trying to understand him. But this? There’s no fixing this. Whatever thread was left between us—it snaps clean and final. And just like that, I was done listening.

He stares at me, hands trembling, chest rising and falling in short, sharp breaths. “I didn’t mean…”

“Get out,” I say. Stronger this time.

His mouth opens again, but I don’t care. I turn, yank the door wide with shaking fingers, and stare him down with everything I have left.

“ Now! ”

For a second, he doesn’t move.

Then he storms past me without another word, the scent of whiskey trailing behind like a warning.

The door slams shut behind him.

And just like that. He’s gone.

I stand frozen, back against the cold plaster, legs folding beneath me like they don’t know how to hold me anymore. My wrist throbs in time with my heartbeat, sharp and rhythmic, and my shoulder screams where it had hit the wall.

All those years, he never laid a hand on me. Not like that. It was always words. Calculated silences. Manipulation. Guilt wrapped in apology. Gaslight laced with charm.

But this? This was something else.

And now I’m sitting on the floor in my best friend’s flat, heart still racing, with the evidence of him etched into my skin.

The soft scuff of bare feet breaks the quiet.

My head snaps up.

Mia stands at the edge of the hallway, framed by the glow from the bedroom light. She’s clutching the edge of the kitchen counter, her sleeve slipping down her arm, curls a wild, messy halo around her face. Her eyes are wide. Too wide.

“Mum?” she says, small and unsure.

Oh God .

I scrub at my face with the sleeve of my jumper, realising too late that my cheeks are wet. I don’t even remember crying.

“Bug…” My voice breaks. I clear my throat and try again, gentler. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

She inches forward, glancing at the door, then back to me. “Was someone here?”

I nod once. “Just a visitor,” I say. “It’s alright now.”

She doesn’t look convinced. But she comes to me anyway. Slow, cautious steps. Like she’s approaching something fragile.

When she reaches me, she sinks down beside me without a word. Her body presses into my side, small, warm and trembling just a little.

I wrap my good arm around her, pull her in, and kiss the crown of her head. She burrows in closer.

For a long moment, we just sit there. Then, her voice, barely above a whisper. “Did he hurt you?”

If I wasn’t already broken, that one sentence would have shattered me.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Press another kiss to her hair. “I’m okay, baby. It was just… an argument.”

A lie wrapped in a softer truth.

She nods against me. Still too young to know when not to believe me.

She asks no more questions. Just stays curled into my side, as if her body knows better than her mind how much I need this.

Eventually, Mia’s breathing slows, heavy and even against my side.

I untangle myself carefully, easing her upright. “Come on,” I whisper, brushing the hair from her face. “Let’s get you to bed.”

She nods sleepily, letting me guide her down the hall, her fingers clutching the hem of my jumper like she’s afraid I might disappear if she lets go.

In her room, she climbs into bed without protest. No complaints, no stubborn bargaining, just a quiet compliance that squeezes something deep and aching in my chest.

I tuck the blanket up around her shoulders, smoothing her curls back from her forehead. She blinks up at me, half-lidded, something raw flickering in her eyes. Something far too old for her years.

“I love you, Mum,” she murmurs.

My throat tightens painfully. “I love you too,” I whisper back, kissing the soft skin of her forehead. “Always.”

I sit beside her until her breathing evens out completely, until the furrow in her brow finally smooths, until she drifts away to somewhere softer than this night deserves. When I finally leave her room, I close the door with a soft click and lean against it for a moment, trying to catch my breath.

The flat feels colder now. Empty and full all at once.

I drift back into the kitchen on autopilot, filling a glass of water from the tap.

I stand there a while, staring out the window at the darkness pressing against the glass.

My reflection stares back, hollow-eyed, tension in every line of her body.

A ghost of a girl trying to remember how to be solid again.

I take a slow sip, one hand braced against the counter like it might hold me upright.

I don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough that the rest of the world seems to fade, swallowed by the quiet hum of the fridge, the soft creak of the pipes.

I walk back into the living room and the TV’s given up entirely, frozen on Netflix’s passive-aggressive little box of judgement.

Are you still watching?

A stupid question. Because if I was, I’d be watching. Not standing here, questioning my life choices while a faceless algorithm throws shade.

Even streaming services know I’m spiralling.

My wrist throbs—a dull, pulsing ache beneath the surface.

I cradle it in my lap, pulling the sleeve of my jumper back to take a proper look.

Skin flushed, slightly swollen. No obvious deformity, range of movement intact.

Likely a mild sprain. Ice, elevation, pain relief, rest. I catalogue it like a checklist, the nurse in me kicking in even as everything else unravels.

I sink into the sofa, wrap the blanket back around my shoulders, and let myself go quiet.

The silence isn’t peaceful this time. It’s waiting. And when the lock clicks open, I don’t startle. I just breathe. The familiar shuffle of boots. The clatter of keys dropped into the bowl. Naomi’s voice, tired and dramatic, cutting across the quiet.

“If one more grown man tells me he’s scared of needles while bleeding on my crocs,” she calls from the hallway, “I swear to fucking God, I’m transferring to a desk job and taking up birdwatching…”

She stops mid-sentence. I don’t turn around. I can feel her noticing the sharp shift in the air, the wrongness of the silence.

“Ellie?” Her voice is softer now, threaded with something sharper than exhaustion.

I turn slowly. She’s already moving. Crossing the living room in three strides, crouching in front of me, scanning my face like she’s cataloguing every crack and fracture.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Her gaze drops to my wrist, the bruise already starting to darken, and she swears under her breath, low and furious.

“Was he here?” she asks. Her voice is low, steady. Lethal.

I nod. Just once.

Naomi’s jaw tightens so hard I can see the muscle jump. She presses a hand to her mouth, like she’s physically restraining herself. “That piece of…” She cuts herself off. Breathes.

Her hands find mine, gentle but unyielding, grounding me. “What did he do?”

I hesitate. Her hands tighten around mine. “Ellie. Tell me.”

I swallow, voice catching. “He grabbed my wrist.” The words feel small, like if I make them tiny enough, they’ll hurt less. “It wasn’t—he didn’t hit me. It was just…”

“Ellie,” she says again, fiercer now. “Don’t you dare try to shrink it.”

The tears come again, sudden and hot. I wipe at them uselessly. “I didn’t want to scare Mia,” I whisper.

Naomi’s face softens, her whole body breaking and rebuilding in a heartbeat. “She saw?”

“After,” I murmur. “I told her it was an argument.”

Naomi doesn’t speak right away. She just looks at me and I hate how well she sees through me. Then, softly, “Ellie… has he ever done anything like this before?”

I shake my head without thinking. “No. Never.”

She doesn’t blink. “Ellie.”

I meet her eyes, throat tight. “I promise you, he’s never touched me before. He’s lashed out before, but he’s never hurt me.”

There’s a pause. Just a beat. But it stretches, heavy and quiet, filled with everything I’m not saying.

Naomi exhales, low and shaky. A sound tangled with too many things to name. Relief. Rage. Heartbreak.

Then she pulls me in without another word. Arms tight, fierce, like she can hold me together by force if she has to. She wraps me up so tight I can feel the hammering of her heart against mine. She holds me like she’s trying to stitch me back together by sheer force of will.

“You’re safe now,” she murmurs fiercely against my hair. “I’ve got you.”

Eventually, Naomi pulls back, just enough to look me in the eye. Her hands stay on my arms, grounding me, like she’s afraid I’ll float away if she lets go.

“You have to do something about this, Ellie.” She says quietly. No drama now. Just certainty. A steady, immovable wall of it.

I lower my gaze, staring at where our hands are still linked, her thumb brushing over my knuckles in a slow, steady rhythm. I can’t find my voice. Can’t make myself say the words aloud.

I don’t even know what I’d say, or who I’d even tell. He grabbed my wrist. He shoved me into a wall. He said it wasn’t his fault. Would they even listen? Would they think I was overreacting?

The thoughts spiral fast, a knot of shame and fear tightening in my chest until I can barely breathe.

Naomi’s grip tightens. “This is the part,” she says softly, “where you stop handling everything on your own.”

I nod. Just once. Small and shaky.

Her shoulders loosen a fraction, some of the tension bleeding out of her. She lets go of my hands, rising to her feet, dusting invisible crumbs from her jeans like she’s gearing up for battle.

“Right. First things first. Tea, chocolate, and then we make a plan in the morning.”

A stunned laugh rattles out of me, half-sob, half-relief. “You’re so dramatic.”

Naomi grins, already heading for the kitchen. “Damn right. I’ve been waiting years for my moment to stage a full emotional intervention. Let me have this.”

She disappears into the kitchen, clattering around like she’s physically beating back the silence.

I stay curled up on the sofa, blanket pulled tight around my shoulders, the weight of the last hour pressing heavy into every bone.

I can hear her muttering to herself as she moves. Something about needing the good tea, not the dust in the box by the microwave, and where the hell did she put the chocolate biscuits.

It’s so normal, so Naomi , that it anchors me more effectively than any pep talk could have.

When she returns, she’s carrying two steaming mugs and a packet of chocolate digestives tucked under one arm like contraband.

She flops down onto the other end of the sofa, shoving a mug toward me with all the gentleness of a bulldozer. “Drink. Sugar is basically medicinal at this point.”

I take the mug with both hands, fingers wrapping around the warmth, and sink deeper into the cushions.

Naomi doesn’t push. She just sips her own tea, legs tucked under her, hair falling loose over her face. She turns on the TV and watches it idly, some rerun flickering across the screen, acting like this is any other late night.

And somehow— impossibly —it helps.

I don’t drink the tea right away. Just sit there, breathing it in, letting the normalcy of the moment wrap itself around me.

And for the first time all night, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating.