And worse—worthless.
Chapter 8: Where Cowards Bleed
(Ryder)
(Trigger Warning: Domestic Violence)
December. The month of endings, of brittle wind and bare trees, of breath turned visible and time slowed by silence. There's something haunting about it—how it wraps the year in a shroud of finality but still carries the ghost of hope, of something new just waiting at the edge of frost. She had that same duality. December. The woman. A name that tasted like warmth in the coldest parts of my chest.
I met her when I thought I was finally free. But there's no such thing as free—not when the past has teeth and a name like Mira.
It started like a coincidence.
I was training late one night at the gym where I coached—just paperwork, end-of-month stuff. She walked in, said she was new in town, just wanted to take a look around. Tall, slim, brown hair pinned back in a way that made her cheekbones look carved from marble. Blue eyes. The kind of beauty that people call classic, like she belonged to another era. She smiled like she already knew me. And when she asked me out, I was... flattered. Surprised. She was the daughter of a senator—a powerful public figure. I kept wondering why someone like her would want someone like me.
It didn't stop there. She started showing up at the coffee shop I always went to before work. Shopping outside my apartment on weekends. Signing up for a trial at the very gym where I worked. At first, I thought it was just fate. Things people say when they want to believe the universe is playing matchmaker.
I was naive.
We dated for months. She was the perfect girlfriend. Attentive to every detail. She'd show up with my favorite snacks, knew what groceries I needed before I even realized I was out of them. It was like being in a movie—one where I was the main character and she was written to adore me. The only thing that felt off was her constant need for reassurance. "Tell me you love me." "Promise me I'm enough." "You're not looking at anyone else, right?" But I figured—hey, we've all got baggage.
And then it happened.
It was a regular evening. I'd stopped by the café on the way back. The barista smiled at me—friendly, nothing more. I didn't even smile back. But Mira noticed. When we got home, she exploded.
"You think I don't see the way she looks at you?" she screamed, throwing the remote so hard it shattered against the wall. "You fucking smiled back, didn't you? You wanted her to think you were single—"
"I didn't!" I tried to stay calm. "I didn't even look at her."
"Liar!" She pushed me. Not a playful nudge—a shove that sent me stumbling into the couch. Then she dropped to the floor and started crying, sobbing, her voice cracking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just—I love you so much. Please don't hate me. Please don't leave me. You're all I have."
I told myself it was a one-time thing.
But it wasn't.
It became a pattern. If I forgot something—even a detail she mentioned—she'd insult me. Call me selfish, a liar, a cheat. If I looked up when a waitress asked for our order, she'd kick me under the table. One night, I was late coming home and she slapped me so hard I saw stars. Then she cried again, made my favorite meal, sat in my lap and whispered how sorry she was.
"You make me crazy," she'd say. "I only act like this because I'm afraid to lose you."
I don't know how I kept forgiving her.
Maybe it started long before I even met her—back when I was just a boy who lost everything too soon. When you bury both your parents before you've even figured out who you are, you learn to cling to what's left. My aunt took me in, did the best she could, but I always felt like a guest in my own life. Loved, but notbelonged. Safe, but notwanted.
So when Mira looked at me like I was her whole world, it felt like sunlight after years of shadow. She saw me. Or at least, I thought she did.
And when she loved me, it was overwhelming. All-consuming. The kind of love that wrapped around me like a home I didn't know I'd been searching for. That kind of love makes you blind. It makes yougratefulfor scraps. It teaches you that pain is the price of closeness.
I think that's how she got in—through the cracks of a boy who never stopped mourning what he lost. A boy who still thought maybe if he could just beenough, someone would finally stay.
So I forgave her.
When she yelled, it wasn't just loud—it was violent. Like her voice was trying to crack me open. She'd scream until the walls shook, until neighbors banged on their ceilings or walls, and even then she wouldn't stop. It wasn't just anger—it was fury that demanded an audience, and I was always the one standing in the blast zone.
She twisted my words until I didn't recognize them. Until I started wondering if I'd really said what I thought I did—if maybe Iwascruel, or cold, or heartless like she said. I'd leave a room to cool down, and she'd call that abandonment. I'd raise my voice once, and suddenly I was abusive. Somehow, I always ended up apologizing for things I hadn't done.
When she threw things, it wasn't random. It was calculated. A wine glass that shattered inches from my head. My helmet, my tools—things that mattered to me. Once, it was my mother's photo. The frame cracked. I remember standing there, frozen,staring at the broken glass and hearing her laugh like I was being dramatic.
She slammed doors like she wanted to tear them off the hinges. She'd lock me out when she was angry—sometimes for hours, sometimes all night. Once, I slept in the hallway, afraid that if I left, it'd make things worse.
