He hit me every day over the tiniest things. burnt toast, a late reply, a wrong look, You made me do this, he did hiss, One night, panic swallowed me whole and I collapsed, At the hospital, he said to them, She slipped in the shower

He hurt me over things so trivial they barely seemed real at first—burnt toast, a text he thought I answered too slowly, a look he decided was disrespectful. There was always a reason, always an explanation, always a way to make it seem like I had caused whatever came next.

“You made me do this,” he would say afterward, low and close, as if the softness of his voice could rewrite what my body already knew.

My name is Emily Carter, and for three years I lived by a private calendar measured in bruises. Not explosive moments, not screaming fights the neighbors might hear—just quiet, relentless harm that became part of daily life until pain felt ordinary and fear felt necessary.

Jason wasn’t violent all the time. That’s what made it harder to explain—to myself most of all. He could be charming, attentive, even apologetic.

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