And then there were the nights she touched me like I was hers to punish.
She'd dig her nails into my skin—not in passion, but in power. She liked to leave marks. Red streaks down my back that bled into my shirt. Bruises on my arms where she gripped too tight. One time, she bit my shoulder hard enough to scar. Said she wanted to leave something that stayed. Like she was branding me. I didn't even fight back. I just stood there, jaw clenched, eyes closed, praying it would pass.
I told myself she was just hurting. That her love was just... broken. Like mine. That she lashed out because she was afraid, because the world had been cruel to her and she didn't know how to be soft anymore.
And when the storm passed—God, she'd be so gentle. She'd cry like a child. Apologize with trembling hands and kisses that tasted like guilt. She'd hold me like I was the one who needed comforting. Whisper that she was scared I'd leave her, that no one else would ever understand her the way I did.
And the worst part?
I believed her.
I let her break me, piece by piece, because I thought that was what love meant. Because I'd lost too much too young, and some part of me thought maybe this pain was the price for being needed by the girl with the golden laugh and soft hands. The one who made me feel wanted, like maybe I wasn't just some orphan trying to earn a place in someone's life.
She knew exactly how to touch my face, how to lace her fingers through mine and say all the right things. And God, I wanted to believe her. Ineededto. Because when you've built your world around someone, it's easier to believe you're overreacting than to admit the foundation's already cracked beneath you. So I kept forgiving her.
Maybe it was survival. Maybe it was how she cried after hurting me, the way her voice trembled with apologies that sounded real, even when they weren't. Maybe it was how she kissed the bruises she left behind like she could erase them. Like she could rewrite the story before the ink dried.
Part of me still clung to that early version of her—the girl who looked at me like I hung the moon, who laughed like she'd never known heartbreak, who made me feel chosen. Wanted. Worshiped.
That version of her became my ghost. I chased it every time she turned cold. I waited for it in every silence after the storm. And when she showed glimpses of it—a soft smile, a lingering kiss—I took it as proof that maybe the monster wasn't real. I convinced myself that girl was still inside her. That if I was patient enough, if I loved hard enough, she'd come back.
Maybe I just imagined it. Maybe I was the problem.
That's how it works, doesn't it? You start rewriting your own reality to survive theirs. You convince yourself that love should hurt a little. That forgiveness is strength. That staying is loyalty. That being broken together is better than being whole alone.
But it wasn't love. It was fear wrapped in the memory of affection.
And I was just a man too wounded to let go.
A man who trained others to be strong. Who could lift double his weight, teach discipline, hold his own in any fight. People came to me to feel safer in their own bodies. Parents trusted me with their kids. Young men looked up to me like I had all the answers.
But behind closed doors, I flinched when a woman raised her voice. I took punches from someone I loved and never once raised a hand back—not because I couldn't, but because I couldn't stomach who I'd become if I did.
She hit me. She screamed at me. Slapped me. She spat cruel things in my face. And every time, I stayed. Not because I didn't know it was wrong. But because the shame of it—of beingme, a man who trained for self-defense, a man built like a wall—beingmeand letting it happen?
That shame was heavier than her fists.
What kind of man gets hit and doesn't leave? What kind of man hides bruises and bites under long sleeves?
I looked in the mirror and didn't see a survivor. I saw a coward. A failure. Someone who let love turn him into something small and voiceless.
Because men like me—we're not supposed to be victims.
We're not supposed to stay. But I did. Again and again. I made excuses for her, minimized what she did, told myself that love was messy, that she was just hurting, that if I was better, she'd stop.
And when she didn't, I told myself maybe I deserved it. Because walking away would've meant facing what I'd become. And back then, that was the scariest thing of all.
But one night, shecutme. And not just a scratch. I almost bled out on the kitchen floor.
It started like it always did—with yelling. Accusations. She was convinced I was cheating again, convinced I was lying to her about a coworker I barely even talked to. Her eyes were wild, her voice shaking with rage. She grabbed the nearest thing—a wine glass—and shattered it against the wall. Shards flew everywhere. I didn't even flinch. I was too used to the chaos by then.
But then she picked up one of the jagged pieces.
Waved it in my face.
I told her to put it down. Tried to calm her. Tried to reach her through the storm like I always did. I stepped closer, arms up. "Please, just give me the glass."
She screamed something I don't even remember now, something hateful—and when I reached for her wrist, she jerked back. The glass tore across the inside of my forearm. Deep. Instant heat. Blood poured like someone opened a faucet.
