Chapter 10 — Smiling for the Cage
I start smiling more.
That's how I know I'm almost gone.
It's the kind of smile that doesn't reach my eyes, the one that keeps people from asking questions. When Eli talks, I nod. When he asks where I've been, I answer before he finishes the sentence. I keep my voice calm, even, agreeable.
Because when you stop fighting, people like Eli stop watching so closely.
It's not peace — it's camouflage.
He seems calmer lately. He believes I've come back to him, back to the rhythm he likes: my day marked by his messages, my evenings predictable. He even laughs again, sometimes.
"See?" he says one night over coffee. "Things are better now. You're not so restless."
I smile, because that's what I'm supposed to do.
Inside, I'm counting the days.
Every morning before work, I pack a few things that don't look suspicious — papers, spare keys, the kind of money he won't notice missing. I keep them in my bag instead of my drawer. I delete search histories. I memorize train schedules.
Each small step feels like stealing pieces of myself back.
Sometimes I catch him studying me, his eyes sharp in that way they get when he senses something just beyond his reach. He doesn't say anything, but I can tell he feels it — the distance he can't name.
"Everything okay?" he asks one evening, brushing my hand lightly, testing my reaction.
"Of course," I say. "Everything's perfect."
And it almost sounds true.
When he leaves that night, I don't watch from the window like I used to.
Instead, I sit at the table, breathing in the quiet, the ordinary stillness of an empty room.
Tomorrow, I'll move the packed bag closer to the door.
The next day, maybe closer still.
Soon, the only thing left to do will be to open it.
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