The morning after the slap, I woke to a silence heavier than any noise. My skin still stung where his hand had landed, but what hurt worse was the cold space between us—a distance that wasn't there before.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to steady my shaking hands. I wanted to tell myself it was a one-time thing, that Dami was just stressed, just overwhelmed. But deep down, I knew. I knew the truth I was too afraid to admit.
The boy I loved was gone.
In his place was someone I barely recognized.
The phone buzzed on my bedside table. A message from my classmate—simple, innocent, just checking if I understood a question from class.
And then my phone vibrated again—this time, a message from Dami.
Where are you?
Why didn't you answer me?
Who are you talking to?
The questions weren't really about my whereabouts. They were accusations. Demands. Chains.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to respond with a calm I didn't feel.
At home. Just woke up.
No response came back, but I knew he was watching, waiting.
I wanted to run, to hide, to disappear—but where?
I had no one to turn to. My family was miles away, and even if they were here, I wasn't sure I could tell them what was happening. How could I explain the bruises hidden beneath my sleeves, the fear I carried in my chest like a secret?
School was my only refuge. The classrooms, the books, the fleeting moments when I wasn't trying to please a man who didn't respect me. But even there, Dami's shadow loomed large.
He had friends who asked about me, who kept tabs. He called me when I was in class, whispered threats between my lectures. I tried to ignore it, but the tension followed me like a second skin.
One afternoon, as I was leaving school, a group of guys blocked my path. I recognized them—Dami's friends.
"Hey, girl," one said with a leer. "Dami's worried about you. Said you're talking to other boys."
My heart pounded, and my steps faltered.
"Just leave me alone," I whispered.
But they laughed.
"Tell Dami to chill. We're just messing around."
I nodded, afraid to provoke them.
When I got home, the door was locked tight.
Dami wasn't there.
The silence was suffocating.
Hours passed before he finally walked in, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath.
"Where have you been?" he demanded.
"School," I said quietly.
He sneered. "Lies."
His hand grabbed my arm, too hard.
I pulled away, tears stinging my eyes.
"Stop it, Dami," I pleaded.
He laughed—a cold, bitter sound.
"You think you're better than me now? That you can just run around without me?"
"No," I said. "I just want to be left alone."
He lunged forward, but I ducked and ran to my room, locking the door behind me.
I sat on the floor, shaking.
I knew things were spiraling.
And I knew I couldn't let it get worse.
But how?
The next day, I made a decision. I reached out to a school counselor, someone I barely knew but who seemed kind.
I told her everything—about the anger, the control, the fear.
She listened without judgment and gave me a number to call if I ever needed help.
For the first time, I felt a flicker of hope.
But that hope was fragile.
Because that night, Dami showed up at my door.
He wasn't angry anymore.
He was charming.
Sweet.
Apologetic.
"I'm sorry," he said, holding my hands. "I was wrong."
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to hold on to the man I fell in love with.
But as he kissed me, a voice inside whispered, This isn't love.
The days that followed were a confusing blur of tenderness and terror.
Promises and pain.
I was caught in a storm I couldn't escape.
And every time I tried to break free, the waves pulled me back.
That night, after he left, I sat by my window, staring at the city lights.
I wondered if anyone else knew what it was like to love someone who hurt you.
To feel trapped in a cage made of their words and actions.
To hope for change that never comes.
And then, my phone lit up with a new message.
We need to talk.
It was from him.
But this time, the words felt different.
Urgent.
Threatening.
I didn't know what the conversation would bring.
But I knew one thing for sure—
My life was about to change.