The days grew heavier, each one sinking me deeper into a life that felt less and less like my own.
My body was reaching its limit.
The baby was due soon. My belly felt impossibly tight, my ankles swollen so badly that my slippers left deep, angry marks in my skin. The pain in my lower back was a constant, dull throb that never let up.
And yet, despite the physical agony, the emotional weight was far worse.
Steve was home more often now—but that didn't mean things were better. It meant he had more time to control everything I did.
He started taking my phone with him whenever he left.
"No need for you to be talking to anyone while I'm gone," he'd mutter, his eyes cold and sharp.
He changed the locks on the apartment door without telling me.
"You don't need to go out," he snapped when I asked for the new key.
Even the windows felt like walls. I'd stand by them for hours, looking out at the world beyond the glass, wondering if I would ever feel the sun on my face without fear again.
One afternoon, I gathered the little strength I had and tried to clean the apartment.
The broken plate was still in the corner, a cruel reminder of that night.
As I bent down to pick up the pieces, a sharp shard sliced through my finger.
Bright red blood welled up immediately, dripping onto the already stained floor.
And something inside me snapped.
I sank to the floor, my back pressed against the cold wall, clutching my bleeding hand, and cried like I'd never cried before.
Not the silent tears I'd grown so used to.
This was loud, broken sobbing—the kind of crying that rips through your chest and leaves you gasping for air.
I cried for every night I'd spent curled up on the bathroom floor.
For every lie I'd told my father when he asked if I was happy.
For every bruise hidden under long sleeves and forced smiles.
But mostly, I cried because I had no idea how to escape.
I was drowning in plain sight, and no one could see me.
That night, Steve came home earlier than usual.
The second he walked in and saw me still sitting there on the floor, the untouched mess around me, the bloodied cloth pressed against my finger, his face twisted in disgust.
"Useless," he spat under his breath.
He didn't shout.
That was worse.
Because the quiet meant he was beyond anger—he was simply done expecting anything from me.
And that cold indifference cut deeper than any slap ever could.
As he slammed the bedroom door behind him, I stayed where I was, staring at the dark hallway, my eyes dry now, my heart completely numb.
I didn't even flinch when the baby moved.
It was the strongest movement I'd felt yet—a solid push against the walls of my battered body, like my child was desperately reminding me:
"I'm here. I'm coming. And I need you to survive this."
I pressed my palm flat against my belly and whispered into the darkness:
"Just a little longer… just one more breath… one more day."
But deep down, I knew it.
I was standing at the very edge.
And it wouldn't be long before I either broke completely… or finally found the courage to run.