The silence after he left was louder than the slap.
Upstairs, a door closed.
And then nothing.
No footsteps. No shouting. No retaliation.
Just absence.
My hand was still burning.
I stared at it like it didn't belong to me.
I had never hit anyone before.
Not like that.
Not with intention.
The kitchen felt colder suddenly. The tiles beneath my bare feet unforgiving. My breathing wouldn't steady. It came in shallow pulls, like I had run miles instead of standing still.
I tried to walk.
I didn't make it far.
My knees gave out before I reached the doorway, and I sank down hard onto the kitchen floor, the cold tile pressing through my thin clothes.
For a second I just sat there.
Staring ahead.
Then the shaking started.
Not dramatic sobbing. Not loud crying.
Just trembling.
"What is wrong with me?" I whispered into the empty room.
The words sounded small.
Victor's voice echoed in my head.
You learned early that love doesn't come when you ask for it.
You beg.
Beg.
The word twisted in my chest again.
I pressed my palm to my mouth like I could hold something in.
I don't beg.
I don't.
But the memory came anyway.
I was seven.
Standing in the hallway outside my parents' bedroom.
Crying too hard to form full sentences.
Trying to explain.
Uncle Lucas touched me.
He didn't mean it like that.
You're dramatic, Alyssa.
You always exaggerate.
Elena stood behind my mother that night. Quiet. Perfect. Concerned.
Not accusing me.
Not defending me.
Just watching.
And somehow that hurt more.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"I don't beg," I whispered again, but my voice cracked.
I had begged.
I had begged to be believed.
Begged not to be sent back into that living room.
Begged for someone to see the fear instead of the drama.
And no one did.
Victor didn't know that.
He didn't know the hallway.
He didn't know the way I learned to swallow things.
So how dare he?
How dare he reduce me to some pattern?
Anger flared again — sudden and defensive.
He deserved that slap.
He did.
How dare he stand there and dissect me like I was some broken experiment he'd studied too long.
How dare he talk about begging.
How dare he talk about my childhood like he had earned access to it.
My breathing hitched.
But beneath the anger, something uglier crept in.
Did I go too far?
The thought slipped in quietly.
I saw his face in my mind. The way his head turned with the impact. The red mark blooming across his cheek.
He hadn't touched me back.
Hadn't grabbed my wrist.
Hadn't raised his voice.
He just looked at me.
Steady.
Contained.
That made it worse.
What if I hurt him?
The question made my chest ache in a way that confused me.
Why do I care?
He hurts me all the time.
With distance. With silence. With half-choices and midnight confessions that never survive daylight.
He hurts me every single day.
So why does the idea of hurting him feel like a crack in my ribs?
Tears finally spilled over.
Hot. Frustrated. Embarrassed.
I slid further down until my back pressed flat against the cabinet, then slowly let myself fall sideways onto the tile.
The floor was freezing.
I welcomed it.
Maybe it would shock me into something clearer.
The ceiling above me looked distant. Unreachable.
I brought my hands to my face.
Why do I want him so much?
The question felt shameful.
He is not kind to me.
He does not choose me.
He does not protect me.
He does not stand beside me in daylight.
And yet —
When he looks at me, the world narrows.
When he touches me, everything else fades.
When he steps away, I feel like I'm being erased.
What is that?
Love?
Obsession?
Addiction?
Punishment?
Aaron's voice floated into my thoughts.
What was your childhood like?
Therapy.
God.
Maybe this is why I need it.
Maybe this is why they all look at me like I'm unraveling.
Because I am.
I turned my face into the tile, tears soaking sideways into the cold surface.
Maybe Victor is right.
Maybe I chase men who don't choose me because I learned that love comes with resistance.
Maybe certainty feels unfamiliar.
Maybe calm feels like neglect.
Maybe I don't know how to exist in something safe.
The thought terrified me.
Because Aaron feels safe.
And I don't feel consumed around him.
I feel… steady.
And part of me resents that.
What kind of person resents peace?
I curled slightly on the floor.
Victor is like the air I breathe.
The thought slipped out unfiltered.
He is everywhere.
In the house. In my body. In my memories. In my guilt.
Even when he isn't touching me, he is there.
Even when I try to talk about something else, he lingers beneath it.
He is like a curse.
Like something etched into my skin that I can't wash off.
My ruin.
And I don't even know why.
That was the worst part.
If he loved me loudly, maybe I could justify this hunger.
If he left Elena, maybe I could call this fate.
If he hated me, maybe I could call this rebellion.
But this?
This half-light existence?
This quiet claiming and careful distance?
It's poison.
And I drink it willingly.
"I'm sick," I whispered.
The word didn't even feel dramatic.
It felt factual.
I lay there longer than I meant to.
Crying. Breathing. Thinking.
Therapy.
Maybe I really do need it.
Maybe this isn't about Victor at all.
Maybe it's about that hallway.
That door.
That night no one believed me.
Maybe I am still standing there.
Still begging.
Still trying to prove I matter.
Still trying to be chosen.
The realization made my chest ache in a different way.
Not sharp.
Not frantic.
Just heavy.
I wiped my face roughly.
This has to stop.
It has to.
I cannot keep orbiting him like this.
I cannot keep collapsing every time he steps closer.
I cannot keep burning just to feel seen.
I sat up slowly, my body weak from crying.
"I'm going to fight this," I whispered to the empty kitchen.
The words felt brave.
Almost convincing.
I will fight this obsession.
I will pull back.
I will not let him define me.
I will not let him pull me into darkness just because it feels familiar.
I will not let him be the only place I feel alive.
But even as I said it —
A quiet voice inside me answered.
You can't.
Because he is already inside you.
Because he already knows where to touch.
Because when he looks at you, you feel like something powerful instead of something dismissed.
Because when he says your name, you believe it means something.
I swallowed hard.
Maybe I can't win this.
Maybe I can't fight him.
Maybe he is the air I breathe.
Maybe he is the habit I don't know how to break.
I pushed myself to my feet slowly, using the cabinet for support.
My legs felt unstable.
My head heavy.
I walked toward the hallway.
The house was silent again.
Too silent.
As I stepped into the corridor, a strange sensation crawled up my spine.
Like eyes.
Like something shifting in the dark.
I froze.
The hallway stretched ahead, dim and empty.
No movement.
No sound.
Just shadows.
My heart began to race.
Someone is watching me.
The thought came quick and irrational.
I turned slowly.
Nothing.
Just closed doors and long silence.
I exhaled sharply.
"See?" I muttered to myself. "This is why you need therapy."
Because I am imagining things.
Because I am spiraling.
Because I let one confrontation turn into paranoia.
This is why they think I'm unstable.
This is why Elena looks at me the way she does sometimes.
This is why Victor says be careful of yourself.
I shook my head, embarrassed by my own fear.
There is no one watching you.
You're not hunted.
You're not losing your mind.
You're just tired.
I walked toward my room, slower now.
Each step heavy.
Each breath steadier than before.
At my door, I paused.
For a split second, I felt it again.
That awareness.
That invisible pressure.
Then it was gone.
"You're fine," I told myself softly.
I stepped inside and closed the door.
But even as I leaned against it, sliding down slowly toward the floor —
A small part of me wasn't sure whether the feeling had been imaginary at all.