Morning arrived like an uninvited guest, dragging its harsh, unforgiving light through the thin curtains of our apartment.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, my fingers gently brushing the darkening bruise along my jawline. Every touch felt like tiny needles pricking my skin, but the real pain wasn't there—it sat heavier, somewhere deeper, somewhere no amount of makeup could hide.
Behind me, Steve slept soundly, his loud, uneven breaths filling the room. I turned to look at him, his face relaxed in sleep, completely at peace. The same hands that had bruised me the night before now rested loosely over the blanket.
How was it that he could sleep so easily… and I couldn't even close my eyes without feeling like I was drowning?
By 8 a.m., I stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror, my reflection pale and hollow-eyed.
With practiced hands, I began covering the evidence.
Concealer. Foundation. Powder.
Layer after layer, as if each stroke could erase what had happened.
But no matter how much I tried, the faint shadow of the bruise remained—a stubborn reminder that no mask could fully hide the life I was living.
I forced my lips into a smile, watching how strange and unnatural it looked.
"Come on," I whispered to myself. "Smile. Just smile. You've done it before. You can do it again."
At the market, life seemed to move on without me.
Vendors laughed loudly, children ran between the stalls, and the scent of fresh bread mixed with the sharp tang of dried fish in the humid air.
I walked through the crowd like a ghost, my head low, my scarf pulled higher to cover the fading mark along my neck.
When the old woman at the rice stall handed me my bag, she paused, her weathered hands brushing mine gently.
"Girl… are you alright?" she asked softly, her cloudy eyes looking into mine with an unsettling kind of knowing.
For a moment, my carefully constructed mask cracked.
My throat tightened, my eyes burned, and for a second, I wanted to fall into her arms and sob like a child.
But instead, I forced the corners of my mouth up. "I'm fine. Just a little tired," I lied, my voice barely holding steady.
She didn't believe me. I saw it in her eyes.
But she didn't push. She simply handed me the change and gave my hand a gentle squeeze before I turned and disappeared back into the crowd.
Home was worse.
The apartment smelled of stale cigarettes and spilled beer. The shattered plate from two nights ago still lay in the corner, forgotten like everything else that was broken in my life.
I sat down on the cold floor, right next to the mess, too tired to care.
One hand instinctively found my belly.
There it was again—a faint flutter, delicate and almost unreal, like the softest whisper of life reminding me it was still there.
"I'm here, Mommy…"
The tears came before I could stop them, hot and silent as they dripped onto my trembling hands.
"Hold on," I whispered, rocking gently. "Just hold on a little longer…"
That evening, as twilight bled into darkness, I heard the familiar heavy footsteps outside the door.
My heart leapt painfully into my throat.
The door slammed open.
Steve's figure filled the doorway, his face already twisted in irritation.
His eyes scanned the apartment—the unwashed dishes, the untouched mess—and his fists clenched at his sides.
"Still living like a useless woman, huh?" he sneered. His voice was low, but every word felt like a slap.
I stood slowly, every muscle in my body tense, ready for the storm.
"Steve… I—I was out at the market. I just—"
The glass cup on the table shattered against the wall before I could finish my sentence.
The sound was deafening, a violent punctuation mark at the end of my helpless explanation.
I didn't flinch this time. I stood perfectly still, eyes wide, every nerve in my body screaming.
But then… he did something different.
He looked at me, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. But he didn't hit me.
He just turned, slammed the door behind him, and left.
The apartment was quiet again.
Too quiet.
And as I stood there in the broken silence, the baby moved again—soft, barely there, but enough to remind me:
"You're not alone, Mommy. I'm still with you."
That night, for the first time in months, I didn't whisper I'm sorry to myself.
I didn't apologize for his anger.
I didn't apologize for my tears.
I simply lay there on the cold, hard floor and promised my unborn child:
"I don't know how much longer I can survive this… but I promise you—I will try. And one day, we'll be free."
I didn't move from the cold, hard floor for a long time.
My ears strained for every sound beyond the door.
Every passing footstep in the hallway felt like it could be him coming back—angrier, drunker, more dangerous.
My mind replayed the sound of the door slamming, the shattering glass, the cruel words that still echoed through the empty apartment.
I knew better than to think it was really over for the night.
This was his game—leave in a storm of anger, then return hours later in a drunken haze, his rage reignited by whatever twisted thoughts he brewed while he was out.
I sat there, unmoving, my knees pulled tight to my chest despite the dull, persistent ache in my lower back.
The baby moved again—a weak, fluttering reminder that even in the darkest moments, life was still struggling to hold on.
My hands stayed over my belly, as if my fingers alone could build walls against the chaos waiting just outside.
Time seemed meaningless.
The hours blurred together with no promise of safety.
Every creak of the old wooden floor in the hallway made my heart jump.
I held my breath when the elevator dinged, my mind racing, "Is it him? Has he come back?"
I lived like that for hours—afraid to sleep, afraid to close my eyes.
Even as exhaustion dragged at my bones, I couldn't let go.
What if I fell asleep and didn't hear him return?What if I wasn't ready to protect myself… or my child?
At some point, the world outside grew silent.
The storms of the night faded into the quiet hum of a city asleep.
But even then, I couldn't rest.
My body was still curled tight on the bathroom floor, my back pressed against the cold wall as if it could keep me upright when my heart had long since collapsed.
And in that fragile, broken moment, I realized something horrifying.
I wasn't just afraid of him.
I was afraid of myself.
Afraid of how easy it had become to accept this life.
Afraid of how normal it now felt to live in fear.
Afraid that somewhere deep down, I had started to believe I deserved it.
My lips trembled as I pressed a kiss against the soft curve of my belly, my tears soaking into my palm as I whispered into the silence:
"Just one more day… Mommy will try again tomorrow. I promise, we'll find the way out… someday."
And with that fragile promise, I waited for the sun to rise—because even if hope felt like a lie, it was the only thing I had left.