The evening was heavy, the air in our small apartment thick with a silence that screamed louder than any argument.
Last night, without warning, my husband slapped me.
I didn’t scream or retaliate.
Instead, I went to bed, letting the sting of shock and humiliation burn quietly inside.
The room was dim, shadows creeping into every corner, making even familiar objects seem foreign.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came.
The silence between us felt colder, a chasm growing wider with each passing minute.
This morning, I awoke before dawn, the weight of the previous night pressing down on me.
I moved through the apartment quietly, almost as if I feared waking something more than just my husband.
I started making breakfast—pancakes, eggs, things he liked.
