The mirror was too clean. Sterile, polished glass framed in gold, like something out of a luxury magazine. But all it did was make it harder to look away. Every angle was too clear. Too sharp. There was no blur to hide in. No soft focus to comfort her. Tess stared at the —

— woman in the reflection. She looked older today. Not in years, she was only twenty-six. but not her soul. The weight behind her eyes carried heaviness and sadness. The lines that hadn’t been there six months ago. The subtle puffiness around her right cheekbone. The —

— yellow-green hue blooming just beneath the surface of her porcelain skin. Fading bruise. Stage four of healing, she’d learned. Blue, purple, then greenish, then brownish-yellow before it faded completely. God, she knew the damn cycle now. Like a textbook. She picked up the —

— concealer, unscrewed the cap with a soft click, and dragged the wand across the ridge of her cheek. The bristles grazed the tender area just below her eye, and she winced slightly. It wasn’t as bad as last time. Last time, her eye had been bloodshot for three days. She’d —

— blamed it on allergies. Spring pollen. Her long, blonde hair was tied back in a low ponytail, but a few strands had fallen loose around her face. She tucked them behind her ear mechanically. It wasn’t vanity today, it was survival. She couldn’t go to brunch with the girls —

— like that. They already whispered. Hope had sent her that long, too-kind text last week. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.” Followed by a heart emoji. She hadn’t answered. Because what would she even say? That she loved him? That she still loved the man who slammed —

— her against the fridge door three nights ago because he thought she was "being cold"? That she loved the same man who, an hour later, had slid down onto his knees in front of her, buried his face against her stomach, and cried like a little boy? That he whispered “I’m —

— nothing without you” like it was a curse? Like she was the one who held the trigger to his soul? The sponge dabbed softly now. Tap, tap, tap. Liquid foundation over cream concealer. She blended with practiced hands, the same way some women put on lipstick for a date. This —

— wasn’t beauty. This was erasure. A perfect mask. But the thing no one ever tells you is… love doesn’t leave just because pain walks in. Tess leaned in closer to the mirror. Her blue eyes were too bright today. That always happened after she cried at night. She’d —

— stared at the ceiling for hours, listening to him breathe beside her. Heavy, drugged breathing. He hadn’t even known what he’d said. Not really. Not the “you’re lucky I even keep you” line. Or the part about how nobody else would ever want a broken thing like her. He’d —

— apologized for that one. Took her hand the next morning, kissed each finger like she was glass and he was penance. Whispered that he was “fucked up in the head” but that she was the only one who made it quiet. And for one raw moment, her heart had fluttered, like it used —

— to. Back when he was still charm wrapped in shadow. Still soft leather jackets and whispered promises. He used to leave sticky notes on the coffee machine. “For the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” “Don’t forget how brilliant you are.” “Missed your legs wrapped around me —

— all night.” He meant it, too. That was the worst part. There was a time he’d worshipped her. Not just the sex, not just the skin and the heat, but the her underneath it all. He used to stare at her when she laughed, like he was watching something holy. Sometimes she still —

— saw it. Sometimes, when he looked at her across the kitchen with a cigarette between his fingers and that lazy smirk, she saw that same boy who showed up at her work with flowers three weeks after they met. The one who used to kiss the inside of her wrist and say, “I’d do —

— anything for you, Tess. Anything.” Maybe that was still true. Maybe that’s what terrified her most. Because she didn’t doubt he’d die for her. She just wasn’t sure he wouldn’t kill her first. Her hand trembled slightly as she dusted setting powder across her cheek. The —

— final layer. Her armor. Her lie. Her perfect mask. “You’re okay,” she whispered under her breath. It didn’t sound convincing. She hated herself for crying after he left two nights ago. For clutching his shirt when he tried to pull away, begging him to stay even as her —

— ribs ached from the impact. She hated how desperate she sounded. How cracked. And how easy it was to slip back into the role, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘛𝘦𝘴𝘴. The one who never talked back unless she wanted it rough. The one who forgave quickly. The one who believed he could change, because —

— didn’t she see it? Didn’t she know who he really was? Yes. That was the worst part. She did. She knew that version of him. The one who held her so tight some nights she couldn’t breathe, but not from fear. From love. From how deeply he needed her. That boy still lived —

— inside the man who left bruises. So she stayed. Because love doesn’t vanish when it’s beaten. It lingers. It waits in the shadows. It whispers in the dark. Tess stepped back from the mirror, knowing she couldn’t fully hide the faint marks on her neck. With ease —

— she sat down on the edge of the bed. Her fingers trembling as she looked down on her phone. No message. No “Hey, sorry I missed you.” No “Be home late.” No “I’m alive, in case you were wondering.” Just silence. His favorite kind of cruelty. She stared at the screen like it —

— owed her something. An answer. A pulse. Some fucking proof that he still cared, that he wasn’t lying dead in a ditch or buried in some rival’s trunk, or worse, tangled in someone else’s sheets. Again. The thought made her stomach curl, sharp and sour. She’d told herself it —

— was a rumor. Just gossip. Just one of those things people said about him, because everyone loved to hate the bad boy who had a crooked grin and a rap sheet longer than her entire love life. But she’d seen the text once. That first time. —

— "Last night was insane. You’ve got some crazy hands, babe. 😈" No name. Just a number. Just enough. She remembered confronting him. He didn’t even blink. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at her with that same flat, glassy stare. Like he was watching a —

— stranger talk. Like she was a problem to solve, not a person he loved. “You’re clingy when you get like this,” he’d muttered. “So insecure. It’s ugly.” It landed like a slap. But worse, because bruises fade. Words don’t. She pressed the side of her face into her palm —

— now, careful not to smudge the carefully constructed lie she wore. The makeup was doing its job. She looked fine. Better than fine. Pretty, even. The kind of girl you’d never guess had sent sixteen texts in a row last Friday, begging him to just answer. —

— "Please tell me you’re okay." "Where are you?" "Just one reply. I’m scared." "Did something happen?" "Why are you doing this to me?" "Why do I still love you?" And when he finally showed up the next evening, he’d laughed. Laughed at her panic, at her tears, at the fear —

in her voice. “You lose your mind every time I don’t respond for a few hours. What do you want me to do, text you during a job? Want me to get arrested so you can sleep better, princess?” That was his word for her. Princess. Always laced with mockery. Like it used to be —

— sweet, his girl, his delicate little prize, but now it was a curse. An eye-roll in a crown. And yet, the hypocrisy sat bitter on her tongue. Because his phone never stopped buzzing when she so much as stepped out alone. His boys would message him the second they saw her —

— downtown, “Yo, your girl just walked into that bookstore on 5th.” “Tess at the café again, looking sad. You good?” “Your girl be talking to a man.” And he always needed to know. Where she was. Who she was with. What time she was coming home. God forbid she didn’t answer —

— fast enough when he called, he’d go cold. Or worse, he’d show up, all slow anger and quiet questions, like a bomb you didn’t hear ticking until it was too late. But when she needed him, when she panicked not knowing if he was alive or in some stranger’s bed, suddenly she —