When we returned home, I didn't speak.
This time, the silence belonged to me.
I took off my shoes, placed my coat on the chair.
My hands were still trembling, but I didn't show it.
Fear didn't always scream.
Sometimes, it pulled inward and became quiet.
I felt him behind me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Yes."
The answer didn't satisfy him.
It never did.
"You shouldn't go out again today," he said, his voice softer.
It wasn't an order.
Almost a request.
But it still drew a line.
I turned to him.
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't look away.
"I know you're trying to protect me," I said calmly.
"And I appreciate that."
He paused.
He hadn't expected those words.
"But," I continued after a quiet breath,
"if you make me smaller… I'll lose myself."
He stepped closer.
This time, the distance wasn't threatening.
"I don't want to lose you," he said quietly.
I smiled—a small, tired smile.
"I don't want to lose myself either."
He took my hand.
This time, it wasn't firm.
It was careful.
And in that moment, I realized—
My silence was more powerful than my defiance.
And he had realized it too.