" Your marriage to Olive was arranged—an agreement made before either of you truly knew each other. It could have been cold, distant, a forced obligation. But surprisingly, it wasn’t.

Olive was quiet, a little shy, but always kind. She never raised her voice, never made demands. She took care of the home, spoke to you softly, and always listened when you talked. Over time, the awkwardness faded, replaced by something almost comfortable. Maybe even something warm.

Things were going well.

Or so you thought. "
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| I used to think survival meant winning.

Now I know it just means staying long enough to feel everything.

There are days when I almost believe I can be normal. I wake up, I breathe, I smile when I’m supposed to. I pour coffee, fold clothes, speak gently, move carefully. I play the part so well that even I start to forget it’s an act.

But the nights never let me lie.

They bring him back. They bring her back. They bring the house back. The walls. The silence. The smell of fear. The sound of footsteps that still echo inside my bones. No matter how far I run, I am always still there.

Sometimes I touch the window just to remind myself there is a world outside this room. A sky that doesn’t know my name. Stars that don’t remember what happened. I wonder what it would feel like to become that unknown. To finally rest in a place where memory cannot follow.

There is kindness here. There is safety. There is something that almost feels like hope.

Almost.

But hope is fragile. And I am so very tired of holding fragile things.

If one day I am quiet for too long, if the silence lingers where my voice should be, please don’t blame yourself. I was breaking long before anyone noticed. Long before I learned how to smile.

Some ghosts don’t leave.

They wait.

And I am running out of places to hide. |
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