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Chapter 14 - Main Question

One evening, as the golden light of dusk settled over the room, he turned to me with an expression that was both gentle and firm.

"Will you be with me?" he asked.

The words hung in the air, heavy yet fragile. My heart skipped, not from excitement alone but from the ache of memory. I had already begun to love him in quiet ways—his care, his calm, the way he saw me when no one else ever had. But love, for me, was tangled with wounds that hadn't yet healed.

I looked at him, searching for the right answer, but all I found was confusion. We were already seen as a pair in the eyes of others. He walked beside me, defended me, carried me through moments I thought I would collapse. But what we had was something I couldn't define. It wasn't what I had known before—submission, fear, silence. And because of that, I didn't know what to call it at all.

I wanted to say yes, yet the word lodged in my throat, caught by the echoes of betrayal and control I had endured. The thought of promising myself again felt like stepping barefoot onto glass.

So I stayed quiet, lowering my eyes.

"I don't know," I whispered at last. "I don't even know what 'being with someone' really means anymore."

He didn't push. He simply nodded, as if he already knew the storm inside me, and reached for my hand. "Then we don't call it anything," he said softly. "We just live it. Day by day."

He looked straight into my eyes, as if he wanted to carve the words into my soul so I would never doubt them again.

"You are my partner," he said with a quiet firmness. "And I want you to be with me. I will always take care of you."

The certainty in his voice startled me. It was so different from the uncertainty and fear I had carried for years. His words sounded like a vow, something he didn't say lightly. My chest tightened, torn between wanting to believe and fearing to trust.

I had dreamed of hearing such words before, but when they finally came, I wasn't sure if I deserved them, or if I could even hold them. Still, a warmth spread through me—fragile, like the first sunbeam after endless storms.

I didn't answer right away. I just let his words sink into the places in me that had been empty for too long.

Not long after, the letter from the court arrived. My hands trembled as I opened it, already fearing the words hidden inside. And there it was. For the sake of money, for the sake of lies, my children were given to him.

The judge believed his stories—believed the man who had stability, a job, and a mask polished with falsehoods. She didn't see through the cracks. She didn't see the truth of who he was. They listened only to the weight of his money and the honeyed poison of his words.

I was shattered. My body trembled with a rage I had never known before. I, who always tried to wish no harm upon others, whispered into the empty room that I wished he would burn in hell. I could not believe the thought even came from me, but it did.

Everyone I trusted had betrayed me. Their lies clung to me like chains, dragging me into nightmares where faces twisted, voices mocked, and the rage inside me would not let me rest. I woke drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, feeling only fury and despair.

And yet, as much as it tore me apart, the rage became fuel.

Each lie, each betrayal, each night spent choking on nightmares lit a fire inside me. I refused to collapse. I refused to let them break me completely.

The storm in my chest pushed me beyond my limits. When my body wanted to give up, I forced it to move. When fear whispered that I was too small, too weak, I clenched my fists and answered with defiance. I did anything that would build a future they couldn't take from me and my kids.

If they thought I would lie down in silence, they were wrong.

This fury was my weapon now.

As I searched for what to do with all the fire inside me, I began putting my knowledge to use.

One person came, then another. I showed them how to string beads, how to shape colors into patterns that carried meaning. My hands trembled sometimes, but as I guided theirs, a strange calm filled me.

Moment by moment, I watched. The orchard outside stretched toward the sun, tiny branches pushing leaves higher each day. The beads sparkled in the light of my lamp, the trees shimmered in the glow of morning dew. Slowly, both the work of my hands and the land we planted began to take shape.

It was small. It was fragile. But it was mine.

The hours I finally had free, I poured into writing. The books I had wished to write years ago but never dared to—because everyone told me it was useless. Even my sister's voice echoed: "Writing is worthless. Nobody reads anymore. This is modern times."

And so, back then, I buried my stories. I felt small, foolish, unwanted.

But now… now I wrote. Dreams, ideas, visions, nightmares, and pieces of my own life spilled out like secrets from a shell forced open. Each word was mine. Each page was proof that I still lived.

Sebastian supported me. He leaned over my shoulder, celebrated with me for every number that went up—every reader, every comment, every sign that my words had found someone out there.

I told myself: I will stand tall. I will grow stronger. And one day, as soon as it is possible, my children will be with me again.

The days started to flow differently. My mornings filled with work, my afternoons with writing, and in the evenings I often just stared at the horizon, as if searching for something hidden beyond it. But it wasn't the horizon that had changed—it was me.

For years, my life had been dictated by fear, betrayal, and the weight of other people's choices. Now, as I sat outside with the gentle wind brushing my face, I noticed something that startled me: I wasn't trembling anymore.

The thought slipped in like a whisper: I am stronger than I thought.

My hands rested on my lap, soil still clinging to my skin from the little garden I had planted. The earth beneath my nails felt real, grounding. My breath came deep and steady. The shadows of the past were still there, but they didn't rule me anymore.

I closed my eyes, and faces swam in my memory—the judge, my ex, my family who turned against me. Their words echoed, but instead of cutting like blades, they only brushed the surface. I had bled enough. I would not bleed for them again.

Footsteps brought me back. Sebastian dropped onto the bench beside me, a mug of tea in his hand. He studied me quietly, as though he had been watching for a while.

"You're far away in thought again," he said softly.

"Not far away," I murmured. "Just… inside."

He tilted his head. "And what do you see there?"

I hesitated, then let the words out, shaky but honest. "I see that… I've been living as if my trauma was who I am. As if pain is my definition. But it isn't. It never was."

Sebastian stayed silent, giving me space.

"I thought," I went on slowly, "that the violence, the betrayals, the lies—they made me weak. But I'm still here. I survived them. Doesn't that make me strong?"

"It does," he said firmly. No hesitation. "You've been strong long before you realized it yourself."

Something cracked open inside me. I hadn't known how much I needed to hear that—not from a judge, not from my sister, but from someone who saw me as I was now.

"Sometimes," I whispered, my voice shaking, "I feel like I'm standing on shards of myself. Broken glass. I don't know if I'll ever put them back together."

Sebastian set the mug down and took my hand in his. His warmth steadied me. "You don't have to put them back. You don't need to be who you were before. You only need to live strong now. Not for them. Not for the past. For you."

"Live strong…" I repeated, the words echoing in my chest.

That night, his words stayed with me as I drifted into sleep. And there—in dream or vision—I saw myself standing at the sea. The waves crashed against cliffs, mist curling in the wind. But the woman staring back at me wasn't the tired, broken reflection I knew. She stood tall, her back straight, her eyes calm and fierce at once. A white dress flowed around her legs like living water. The sun lit her hair in strands of gold.

She was radiant. Whole. Unafraid.

She looked straight at me and smiled—not a gentle comfort, but a recognition. You will be me, her smile seemed to say. One day soon.

When I woke, the vision clung to me. For the first time in years, I didn't feel like I was drowning. I felt like I was becoming.

I touched my chest, whispering into the quiet, "I am more than my pain. I am becoming my own story."

And deep inside, I knew—it was true.

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