I was running out of ways to pretend I was okay.
Mark hadn't said anything since that night—"You're hiding something"—but his silence wasn't kindness. It was sharp. It cut deeper than shouting ever could.
I felt it in the way he looked at me now: guarded, like he didn't know what I'd become. And maybe I didn't either.
We moved through the house like strangers. Not with slamming doors or harsh words, but with absence. Absence where there used to be warmth, where there used to be him.
I couldn't bring myself to look him in the eye anymore. Every time I did, something inside me caved. The guilt pressed harder on my ribs, making it difficult to breathe.
