The sting on my cheek was a raw reminder of everything I had tried to bury. Every time I blinked, the ache flared anew, and the silence after Dami's footsteps felt deafening—like the world had stopped moving just for me to sit there and feel the weight of everything crashing down.
I wanted to scream, to shout at the injustice of it all, but the words were stuck in my throat, tangled with fear and shame. The bruises hidden beneath my clothes weren't just on my skin — they were carved deep inside me.
I had loved him once. I had believed in him. But now, the man who had promised to protect me was the one who kept me trapped.
For days after the slap, I moved like a ghost in my own life. I went to school, answered questions, smiled when I had to, but inside, I was unraveling. Every look in the mirror reminded me that I was no longer the girl who had walked into that boutique in 2017 with stars in her eyes and dreams bigger than her small town.
Who was I now?
I touched my face gently, afraid to feel the sting. The truth was unbearable: I was broken. And worse, I was afraid that no one would want the pieces of me.
Dami's voice haunted me, like a cruel echo in my mind.
"You owe me everything."
"No one else will want you."
"I'm the only one who cares."
I told myself these were lies. I tried to believe it. But fear is a powerful cage.
One afternoon, walking home from class with my books clutched tight, my thoughts spiraled. I barely noticed the warm breeze or the way the sun filtered through the trees. Then a familiar voice cut through my fog.
"Lena!"
I froze. The voice belonged to Tolu, my childhood friend — the one person who had never stopped believing I deserved better.
She was jogging to catch up, her eyes searching mine with something like alarm.
"Hey," she said gently. "You look… different. Like you've been carrying a weight."
I wanted to brush it off. To pretend I was fine. But the truth pressed on my chest like a stone.
"I'm okay," I whispered, barely meeting her eyes.
Tolu didn't buy it. "You don't have to pretend with me."
For a moment, I wanted to tell her everything. The pain, the silence, the slow erosion of my spirit. But the words felt fragile, like they might shatter if I said them out loud.
Instead, I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Promise me you'll call me if you need anything," she said, squeezing my hand before she turned to leave.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling, heart pounding. Tolu's concern had opened a crack in the walls I'd built around myself. Maybe I wasn't as alone as I felt.
Maybe I didn't have to stay silent.
A small spark of hope flickered, but fear was still there — cold and heavy.
What if I tried to reach out and it made things worse? What if Dami found out and it only made his anger explode again?
I twisted the phone in my hands, debating.
Suddenly, it buzzed.
A message from Dami.
"We need to talk. Now."
My breath caught.
What did he want?
Part of me hoped it was a chance to fix things. The other part—scarred and wary—felt the old familiar knot of dread tighten.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I stared at the screen, heart hammering.
That message was a test. A challenge. An ultimatum.
I could feel the weight of it pressing down on me.
I knew deep inside that I was at a crossroads.
If I answered, would I be stepping back into the storm? If I didn't, would I be sealing the door to the life I once thought I deserved?
The night stretched on, thick and silent, filled with questions I didn't have answers for.
The next day at school, the weight of that message lingered. I couldn't focus on lectures or conversations. Every ping of my phone made my chest tighten.
During lunch, I met Tolu again. She noticed the strain on my face.
"You're worried about him, aren't you?"
I nodded, ashamed.
"I know it's scary," she said softly. "But you don't have to face this alone. There are people who can help."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to be brave. But how do you fight something that's wrapped itself around your heart, disguised as love?
Later that week, Dami showed up unannounced at my apartment. My heart raced before I even opened the door.
He looked calmer than usual, but his eyes held that same intensity—the kind that made me both hope and fear.
"We need to talk," he said quietly.
I swallowed hard, stepping aside.
Inside, the air felt thick with things unsaid.
"I know I've made mistakes," he began, voice low. "But I love you. I don't want to lose you."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that beneath the anger, the jealousy, the pain, there was still the man I had fallen for.
But how could I forget the bruises? The slaps? The nights I spent scared to speak?
I looked into his eyes and asked the question I'd been afraid to say out loud.
"Why did you hurt me?"
He flinched, like my words were a blow.
"I was scared," he admitted. "Scared of losing you. Scared that you'd leave."
The confession hit me like a punch to the gut.
Scared.
Was that the reason for all the pain? For the controlling, the shouting, the violence?
I didn't know what to say.
But as I stood there, I felt something shift inside me.
The love I had held onto was tangled with fear, and I wasn't sure which was stronger anymore.
I wanted to walk away.
But my legs wouldn't move.
That night, I lay awake, heart pounding.
I thought about all the moments I'd ignored, all the times I'd made excuses.
I thought about Tolu's words, about the life I wanted.
I thought about myself — not the broken girl, but the woman I was still becoming.
I reached for my phone and typed a message I almost deleted a dozen times.
"I need help."
Sending it felt like stepping off a cliff.
But sometimes, the hardest step is the first one.
I didn't think it would come to this. Not like this.
Every bruise, every angry word, every silent treatment had built a wall between who I was and who I was becoming. But it wasn't until that night—when the silence in the room grew so thick I could cut it with a knife—that I realized I was standing at a crossroads.
The night began like any other. Dami came home late, his steps heavy, the tension around him tighter than the air in my chest. I tried to keep the peace, to shrink myself down so I wouldn't be a target. I kept my eyes low, my voice softer than a whisper.
But he wasn't in a mood to be soothed.
"Why didn't you answer my calls?" His voice was low, but cold, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
I blinked. "I was in class."
He scoffed. "Don't lie to me."
I shook my head, but the fear had already settled in my stomach like lead. This wasn't about class. It was never about class.
He stalked closer, his breath ragged, eyes wild. "You think you can hide things from me?"
"No," I whispered.
"Then why won't you tell me who you were with? What you were doing?" He raised his voice, and the neighbors downstairs might have heard.
I swallowed hard, wishing I could disappear. "I was with my friend. Just studying."
"Studying? Don't lie. I don't want to hear your excuses anymore." He grabbed my arm, too tight, pulling me closer like I was a prize to be claimed—or punished.
The fear sparked to life, and my heart pounded like a war drum. I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron.
"Let go," I said, voice trembling.
"You don't tell me what to do." His face was inches from mine, his eyes dark with something I couldn't name—rage? Hurt? Both?
The slap came without warning, sharp and searing against my cheek. I staggered back, clutching my face, tears burning hot behind my eyes. I didn't cry—not yet. I was too shocked, too broken inside.
"You're mine," he growled. "Don't forget that."
I wanted to scream, to tell him he had no right. But the words died in my throat.
Because I knew the truth.
I was his—only because I let him make me so.
Later, when the storm passed, and he lay asleep beside me, I stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks like they mapped my broken dreams. I remembered the girl I used to be—the girl who believed in love without fear, who thought the world was full of possibility.
That girl was gone.
Or maybe she was just buried beneath the weight of promises broken and trust shattered.
I reached for my phone, scrolling through old messages. His words—sweet, tender, full of love—mocked the silence that had become our reality. How did we get here? When did love turn into a battlefield?
I thought about telling someone—my mother, a friend, anyone—but the fear wrapped tighter than chains. What if they blamed me? What if they told me to leave but I didn't have the strength? What if I was truly alone?
The next day, I went to school with a mask carefully painted over my face. I smiled, laughed, answered questions. But inside, I was unraveling.
At lunch, I sat with my closest friends, their voices light and carefree. I envied their freedom—their ability to speak without looking over their shoulders.
"Are you okay?" Nneka asked, eyes searching mine.
I nodded quickly. "Yeah. Just tired."
They didn't press. They didn't see the cracks I was hiding.
Later, in class, my phone buzzed. A message from Dami.
"You better be home on time."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and typed back, "Okay."
The weight of those two letters crushed me.
That night, the argument came again, this time over a missed call.
"You think I'm stupid? That I won't find out who you're talking to?"
"I'm not talking to anyone," I whispered.
"Lies. All lies."
His fists pounded the wall beside me. I shrank back, heart hammering.
I wanted to leave. I wanted to run far away.
But my legs wouldn't move.
Because I was scared.
Scared of what he might do if I tried.
Scared of what I might lose if I left.
Scared of the unknown.
Days passed like this—tense, suffocating, unbearable.
Until one afternoon, when I came home to an empty apartment and a note on the kitchen table.
"I'm sorry. I need time to think. Don't go anywhere."
Hope flared inside me—small, fragile, but real.
Maybe this was my chance.
Maybe the monster inside Dami was just a man struggling.
Maybe things could change.
But as I sat alone, waiting for him to come back, the silence swallowed me whole.
And I realized the hardest part wasn't surviving the abuse.
It was learning to survive myself.