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 —

— was clingy. Insecure. Ugly. She used to be his softness. Back when she was eighteen and stupid and glowy-eyed, and he was twenty-six and dangerous and all hers. Or so she thought. He’d show up to her campus on that roaring black motorcycle, helmet under one arm, fit, —

— mouthwatering tattoos, hair slicked back, eyes lit with that twisted humor only she seemed to soften. He’d lean against the bike like some fallen god and grin when she blushed. "You got no idea what you do to me, baby." And she believed him. Every damn word. Every lie —

— stitched with longing. He made her feel like she was chosen. Like he could’ve destroyed the world but spared her. She was the exception. Until she wasn’t. Until the cold came in, the blank, detached mask that slid over his face like fog on a mirror. No warmth. No trace of —

— the man who used to stay up with her all night, whispering that she made him want to be good. That maybe, with her, he could be. That maybe he didn’t have to run anymore. Now? Now he could disappear for a whole weekend and come back with blood on his sleeves and no —

— explanation. Just a duffel bag dumped on the couch and a kiss to the top of her head. Like she was his dog. Faithful. Waiting. And worst of all? She always waited. Because no matter how numb he went, no matter how wild his eyes looked when he was high or angry or lit —

— with something feral, he still touched her like he owned her. Like her body belonged to him and only him. There was nothing gentle about it anymore. Nothing slow. Nothing soft. But it still lit her up like a wire exposed to lightning. God, she hated herself for that. —

— Because when he was inside her, when he grabbed her throat or bent her over the kitchen counter or dragged her into his lap and made her ride him while he lit a cigarette, that’s when she forgot. Forgot the pain. The silence. The cheating. The violence. That’s when she —

— remembered the charming man she fell for, who once held her face in his hands and whispered, “You make me feel like I could have a future.” But then morning would come. Or not. Sometimes just a slammed door and engine noise and nothing for twelve hours. Or twenty-four. —

— A week. A month. Sometimes she didn’t know if he was in jail, in a hospital, or dead. Sometimes she wished he was. Then he’d text. A single word. “Home.” And like an idiot, she’d run to him. Because love like this doesn’t let you breathe. It wraps around your ribs —

— like barbed wire, tight enough to make you think it’s support. Until you bleed. Tess wiped her thumb under her eye, clearing away the tiny tear that threatened to ruin her work. No. Not today. She wouldn’t cry today. Today, she would walk into brunch, smile —

— and sip her mimosa and laugh when the girls joked about “bad men.” They didn’t understand. Not like she did. Because he wasn’t bad. Not all the time. Not when he played her favorite song on his shitty little record player and danced with her in the dark, barefoot in the —

— living room. Not when he looked at her like she was the only real thing in his whole rotten world. That man still existed. She could hear the sounds from outside, a car door slammed, a bird screeched, a dog barked. Life kept happening. As if her chest wasn’t cracked wide —

— open and her ribs weren’t made of memories. As if she wasn’t sitting here trying to balance a thousand versions of the same man in her head. The 𝘊𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭. The 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳. The 𝘈𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘳. The 𝘋𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳. She curled her fingers tighter around the phone in her —

— lap. She didn’t text him again. Not yet. Not this time. Instead, she let herself think. Not about the bruises. Not about the silence. But about the things he used to say at three in the morning when he was high on adrenaline and heartache, lying behind her in bed with his —

— arm around her waist and his nose buried in her hair. High on her, not drugs. “You’re my calm, Tess. You know that, right?” She remembered those words. Every syllable. Like scripture. “You’re what I want. Not the bullshit I do. Not the runs or the fights or the heat. I —

— just wanna be with you. Little house. Three kids. Two dumb dogs. One of those mailboxes with our name on it.” He had even smiled when he said it. That half-lazy, crooked thing that made her knees soft and her chest ache. He knew that was her dream in life, to be a mother, —

— to have her family and how she’d always strived for that. He’d continued that time. “You in that little white dress, barefoot on the porch. I could do that, for you. Quit everything. Just be yours.” And she’d believed him. She still believed him. Because she’d seen it, —

— the part of him that ached for peace. That looked at her like she was an escape hatch from the war zone inside his own head. He told her she made the noise go quiet. And maybe that’s why he came back. Over and over. Why he’d wrap his arms around her so tightly some nights it—

— felt like possession. Like he was trying to merge. As if the world wouldn’t be able to touch him if they were fused skin to skin. The night she told him she was pregnant, he hadn’t smiled. Not at first. He sat on the edge of the bed, palms flat on his thighs, shoulders —

— too stiff, jaw locked. Not angry. Not quite. Just… frozen. “Now?” he’d said, voice too low. “Tess, now?” She’d nodded, already crying. Already terrified. “It wasn’t on purpose. I didn’t— It just happened. I’m sorry” “Don’t apologize.” That had come fast. Sharp. Final. —

— “You don’t ever say sorry for something like that. Ever.” It took him two days to come around. Two days of silence, pacing, smoking, being gone and back again. But when he did, when he finally broke, he sank to his knees in front of her and put his hands over her belly —

— like it was a miracle. Like she was a miracle. “I wanna be better,” he’d said. “I want to do this with you. I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.” And for two weeks, he meant it. He quit the worst of the jobs. Stayed home more. Cooked her eggs in the morning and rubbed —

— her feet and called her “mama” with a stupid grin on his face. She swore, swore, he was changing. Then.. God, she hated remembering it, he’d thrown her. Not in a fight. Not even during one of his worst nights. Just… a moment. He’d come home angry, wild-eyed, something —

— happened or some guy talking shit. She didn’t even say much. Just touched his arm, tried to calm him down, told him to breathe. And then he snapped. One shove. One barked “Don’t touch me right now!” And she hit the closet door hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. —

— Hard enough that she slid to the floor, stunned, cradling her side and swallowing the scream that tried to claw its way out. He didn’t even help her up. Just stood there, panting, hands in his hair, muttering curses as he paced. He came back a few minutes later. Said sorry. —

— Said he didn’t mean it. Said it wasn’t that hard. Then the bleeding started. Just spotting at first. Then more. Then pain. The ER was cold. White walls. Blue lights. Sterile gloves. Doctors with too-sympathetic eyes. He held her hand the whole time. Didn’t let go once. —

— When they told her the baby was gone, he didn’t say anything. Just pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.” Over and over. And for two full days, he didn’t leave her side. He didn’t go out. Didn’t pick up his phone. Just —

— held her. Wrapped around her in their bed like she was porcelain. Kissed her temple. Rubbed her back. Listened when she cried without trying to fix it. He was there. And that’s what made it so hard. Because when she closed her eyes, she didn’t see the bruises. She saw —

— that version of him. The man who whispered, “We’ll try again someday. When it’s right. When the world isn’t so mean.” That man, the good man, was real. She’d touched him. Slept beside him. Heard his voice break for her. He wasn’t a fantasy. He was him. Still in there. —

— Somewhere. So every time the coldness came back, every time his eyes went blank or he vanished for days or she found condoms in his pocket he’d never used with her, she still told herself it wasn’t who he really was. He was just scared. Or lost. Or slipping again. And she —

— was supposed to be his anchor. Because didn’t he say she was the only one who ever really saw him? Didn’t he say she was his home? Tess stood up slowly. She adjusted her cardigan. Fixed her lip gloss. Stared at the mirror once more. The bruises were invisible now. So —