It was supposed to be the last time.
He swore it, sobbed it into her hair as she let him hold her that night — distant and stiff but still there. He begged her forgiveness with trembling hands and tear-soaked apologies.
She believed him.
She wanted to believe him.
But it wasn't the last time.
It started small again. Short tempers. Cold silences. Possessiveness disguised as protectiveness.
And then it happened again.
And again.
Ava would flinch at loud voices, at sudden movements. She'd cover up bruises with sweaters in the summer. She stopped laughing freely, stopped meeting anyone's eyes.
Alex would always apologize. Sometimes with flowers. Sometimes with tears.
Sometimes with terrifying silence, like nothing had happened at all.
And the scariest part? He'd go from rage to tenderness in seconds — his hands that hurt her moments ago now cupping her face like porcelain. Whispering broken promises and twisted reassurances.
"You know I love you, right?"
"You make me crazy when you smile at other people."
"You belong to me."
And Ava — sixteen, scared, and still in love — nodded. Not because she agreed, but because it felt safer to.
She stopped calling her friends. Started lying to her mother. She shrunk in places where she used to shine.
Alex didn't even realize how far gone he was.
He convinced himself she was his. That no one else could understand her. Protect her. Love her like he did.
And when he hurt her, he told himself it was out of love.
She made him angry.
She made him afraid of losing her.
It was her fault. And also — never her fault.
It made no sense. But he lived in that contradiction, dragging her into it too.
By the time Ava turned seventeen, the apartment was a quiet warzone.
No screams. No breaking glass.
Just bruises hidden under sleeves and a girl too afraid to leave a boy who once made her feel like the whole world.