Ray Lin
It's funny how pain teaches you to count in seconds.
One second of silence.
Two seconds of footsteps.
Three seconds before the door creaks open and everything inside you freezes.
I was sixteen the first time he hit me hard enough to split my lip. I had said something—maybe I left the light on, or didn't look scared enough, or maybe I just breathed wrong.
That night, I learned that silence is not peace. It's the warning before the storm.
He dragged me by the wrist. My stepfather. My mother's mistake. The man with beer breath and eyes that smiled too much when I cried.
He threw me into the kitchen floor and told me to apologize. I didn't even know what for. But I did it anyway. Because my mouth bled and my knees ached and I didn't want to taste the metal in my teeth again.
After that, I learned to smile at the right time. Cry at the right time. Speak only when spoken to. Be good.
Good girls don't get hurt, right?
Wrong.
Being good just made me easier to break.
He started locking my bedroom door from the outside. Sometimes he forgot to feed me. Sometimes he didn't forget—he just didn't care.
And then came the nights he brought others home.
Men who laughed too loudly. Who looked at me like I was something they could use and then throw out. When I screamed, he hit harder. When I went quiet, they did worse.
So I learned something new.
Not to scream.
Not to fight.
Just shut my eyes and wait.
Count.
One.
Two.
Three.
After they left, I would crawl to the shower and scrub myself until my skin bled. Then I'd look in the mirror and whisper: "You're Ray Lin. You're sunshine. You're not broken."
Over and over.
Like if I said it enough, I'd believe it.
At school, I wore long sleeves and big smiles. I memorized everyone's names, gave out compliments like candy, made people laugh until they forgot I was always too tired, too pale, too quiet when no one looked.
They loved me.
But no one saw me.
No one saw the bruises that makeup couldn't hide fast enough.
No one saw how I flinched when someone raised their voice.
No one saw how I never, ever let anyone walk behind me.
Until him.
Until that cafe.
Until Sebastian Blake looked at me like he'd seen something.
And for the first time in years, I let myself wonder—
Would he be the one who didn't look away?