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

The trial lasted six months. Six months of reliving things I had tried to bury. Jason never looked at me in court. When the verdict came back guilty, he didn’t look furious.

He looked small.

People often ask why I stayed so long. The truth is uncomfortable. Abuse doesn’t begin with fists. It begins with doubt, with blame, with someone convincing you that pain is normal and that you are the problem.

I started therapy. I learned how fear rewires the brain. How silence becomes survival. How leaving isn’t one brave decision, but hundreds of tiny ones made under pressure.

Today, my life is quieter. I work at a small marketing firm. I drink coffee without flinching at sudden noises. I laugh more. Trust still takes effort—but peace is real.

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