The kitchen floor felt colder than usual that evening. I sat there, knees pulled close, my breath mingling with the chill. The room was dim, shadows casting long lines across the tiles.
I heard the familiar shuffle of his feet before he entered—he never bothered to announce himself.
His footsteps stopped near the fridge, a looming presence casting a shadow over me. I could feel the tension in the air, thicker than the silence that usually filled our home.
I didn’t look up. Keeping my gaze fixed on a crack in the tile, I counted the seconds, hoping he’d just walk past.
But then came the sharp intake of breath, a signal I knew too well.
His fist met my ribs with a force that expelled air from my lungs. I folded over, the pain sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t new, yet somehow it felt like the first time, every time.
I stayed down for a moment, gathering my resolve, feeling the ache settle into a familiar throb. But this time, something shifted within me, a quiet defiance born out of years of silence.
I pushed myself up, my movements slow but deliberate. My eyes met his, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before his expression hardened.
“…”
I didn’t know what words I could possibly say that would change anything. So, I said nothing.
