Reality of life
I didn't fall in love knowing it would destroy me. At first, it felt like safety. Slowly, it became a cage. I stayed longer than I should have, hoping love would change cruelty. Instead, it changed me.
The relationship was toxic in ways people couldn't see. Words cut deeper than fists. Silence hurt more than shouting. I was made to feel small, guilty, and replaceable. I doubted my worth every day, yet I stayed—because I believed love meant endurance.
There came a moment when I looked at myself and didn't recognize who I had become. I was tired of apologizing for things that weren't my fault. Tired of begging for respect. That was the moment I knew I had to survive, even if it meant walking alone.
Survival wasn't easy. Nights were heavy. Tears became routine. I questioned myself more than I questioned them. But somehow, even while breaking, I kept going. Breathing felt like an achievement. Living felt like resistance.
What hurt almost as much as the relationship was the way people judged me. They talked without knowing. They blamed instead of understanding. They treated my pain like gossip and my strength like attitude. Very few asked how I was. Fewer cared.
But I am still here. Scarred, yes—but not defeated. I survived the relationship. I survived the judgment. I survived becoming someone I never wanted to be, and I am slowly becoming someone I respect again.
This chapter is not about my weakness.
It is about my survival.