The nights after the wedding cancellation were the hardest.
Not because Jon was gone—he wasn't. He was always nearby, like a storm waiting to break. The hardest part was the silence.
Silence allowed memories to speak.
I couldn't sleep. I would lie in bed with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, and the past would return with perfect clarity. Each flashback was a scene from a life I had already lived. The memory of it all was sharper than any pain I had ever felt.
I saw myself on the bed in the hospital, the white sheets stained red. I saw the fear in my own eyes. I heard the beeping of machines, the sterile smell of the room. I saw Jon standing beside me, smiling gently at the nurses while I begged silently.
I saw the moment he told me the truth.
"I did it," he said calmly. "I did it all."
I remembered the way his hand had landed on my face.
The way my body had gone numb.
The way my voice had died.
And every time I remembered, my body reacted.
My chest tightened. My stomach turned. I would wake up sweating, shaking, my heart beating like it wanted to escape my ribs.
But I didn't go back.
I didn't call him.
I didn't apologize.
Instead, I tried to replace those memories with new ones.
I began to write.
At first, I thought it was silly how could words change what I'd been through? But writing gave my mind something to hold onto besides fear. It made my thoughts real. It made my pain visible.
I wrote about my parents. About the way my mother's hands always smelled like soap and onions. About the way my father laughed when he was happy. I wrote about the child I had lost, the one I never got to hold.
I wrote about my fear.
And in the act of writing, I began to understand something.
I wasn't just afraid of Jon.
I was afraid of the person I had become under his control.
The person who had believed his lies.
The person who had died believing she had no other choice.
I refused to become her again.