Chapter 2: Shame That Wasn't Mine
I carried shame with me like a second skin.
Not the kind that comes after an awkward moment or a mistake. Not the kind that fades with time or laughter.
This was different. Deeper.
The shame of being broken by someone you once loved more than yourself.
He kept calling. Again and again.
His name lit up my screen, and every time it did, a knot formed in my stomach.
I couldn't answer. I just... couldn't.
My tears fell in silence, hot and endless, as if they were trying to wash away something too heavy to name.
I was at my parents' house.
In my childhood room—too small for a woman my age, too pink, too preserved. The walls were still lined with old drawings and fading posters, and yet everything felt unfamiliar.
The air was thick. I lay on the bed with a heart turned to stone.
Empty.
Not the kind of emptiness that follows heartbreak, but the kind that comes when you've lost yourself entirely.
After a week, I had to return to work.
I entered the building with my head down, mumbled a soft "good morning" to the doorman, and avoided the elevator.
It was too open. Too bright.
I took the stairs instead—darker, lonelier, more suited to how I felt inside.
I wanted to be invisible.
A ghost passing through the halls of her own life.
I hid the bruise under heavy foundation, but my scalp still throbbed where he'd pulled my hair.
And even though no one asked, I felt as if everyone knew.
That they could smell the shame on me.
Back in my office, I was alone. My two coworkers were on vacation, a coincidence that felt like both a blessing and a curse. I worked as the executive assistant to the CEO of a successful software company.
Summer was slow, but I was the only one available, so I had to show up.
When I stepped outside to head home, I sensed it before I saw him.
Klemen.
He stood by my car, holding flowers.
His eyes were red, his face swollen from crying.
As I approached, he dropped to his knees.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know what I was doing. I drank too much. I don't remember anything."
He cried. Hugged my legs. Begged for forgiveness. Promised to change.
And I believed him.
Back then, I didn't know what manipulation looked like.
I didn't understand how a person could twist your thoughts until you doubted your own reality.
I didn't know how easy it was to mistake a performance for remorse.
How dangerous it was to cling to the hope that love could fix everything.
I went back.
For the next three, maybe four months, life felt... almost normal. Better, even.
He was gentle. Loving. Tender in bed.
Attentive around the house. He helped me with everything. Left small notes. Made me tea without asking.
I started to think maybe it was me.
Maybe I'd exaggerated. Maybe he had really changed.
Then, one night, he didn't come home.
He said he'd run into an old friend after work, and they went for a drink. "I'll be home soon," he said.
I wasn't worried. People stay out sometimes. It's normal. I trusted him.
I fell asleep late.
I woke to the sound of the bed shifting.
The mattress dipped under weight.
In the half-light coming from the bathroom, I saw him crawling toward me on all fours.
He looked like something out of a nightmare—his face slack, eyes unfocused, body heavy and unpredictable.
He smelled of sweat and alcohol.
My stomach turned.
Without a word, he pulled the blanket off me, yanked my shirt up, and grabbed my breast.
Rough. Too fast. Then he started sucking on it. Hard.
"Stop," I said quietly.
He didn't.
He kissed me with wet lips, forcing his mouth on mine.
The smell made me gag.
His touch made my skin crawl.
"Please, you're drunk," I whispered.
He didn't hear me.
Or he didn't care.
He tore my shirt. I felt the air hit my skin like a slap.
He pinned my hands down and continued licking and biting my chest.
I said, "Enough."
He stopped. Looked at me.
His hand moved to my face. He grabbed my jaw. Tight.
I felt every finger pressing into my skin.
"Who did you fuck?" he hissed. "Is that why you don't want me?"
I froze.
My thoughts scattered. I was here, in our bed, alone. You were the one out drinking.
He repeated the question—louder, more menacing.
I didn't answer. I didn't know how.
I didn't want to make him angrier.
I was frozen.
But I knew I wouldn't let him touch me like that.
Not drunk. Not violent. Not anymore.
His eyes blazed. Not with passion. But with something else. Something darker.
Something terrifying.
Then—he spat in my face.
If I had any dignity left, it died in that moment.
Nothing ever made me feel as small, as disgusting, as worthless, as that.
He slapped me. Not hard. But with enough force to make it clear—he was in control.
"Get out," he said. "Sleep somewhere else."
I got up. Numb.
Moved like a ghost to the spare room.
The one we once planned to make into a nursery.
I didn't sleep.
I stared at the ceiling.
My body wasn't mine.
My heart was a clenched fist. My thoughts circled, spiraled, collapsed.
The next morning, I began packing.
When he saw the suitcase, panic set in.
Again—tears. Apologies. "I don't remember anything. It wasn't me." He held me. Kissed me. Promised.
But this time… I knew.
I stayed quiet. Nodded.
Let him believe he'd won.
Because I knew—if I left now, he wouldn't let me.
And I'd seen it before.
I'd seen a friend go through this. Her bruises never stopped, even when his promises flowed like honey.
This time, I would not be caught.
At work, I asked my boss for a transfer. Our company had a branch in another city. He looked at me carefully.
"You're one of the most reliable people here," he said. "Disciplined. Efficient. Warm. We work well together."
Then he paused.
He'd seen the bruises beneath my foundation.
And he said only this:
"I'll help you."
And he did.
The day I drove away, I didn't cry.
I didn't look back.
I didn't belong to him anymore.
This time, I was going home.