MY ABUSER
I kept the food on the plate and stood there, staring at it longer than I should have. The steam rose slowly, curling into the air, fading before it could take shape—much like the thoughts in my head that refused to settle into anything clear.
Should I go and wake her up?
The question lingered, uncomfortable, persistent.
I exhaled sharply, irritation building inside me, not because of her—but because of myself. Because of this strange, unfamiliar guilt that refused to leave me alone.
Why am I even feeling like this?
That question remained unanswered, no matter how many times I tried to reason with myself.
I had every right to leave her there.
Didn’t I?
She forced me into this marriage. She threatened my family. She turned my life into something I never wanted. If anything, I was the one who should feel wronged, not her.
Then why does this feel… different?
My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the plate as my mind replayed the moment I went back to the shop.
The way she stood there.
Not angry.
Not loud.
Not sarcastic.
Just… lost.
That wasn’t the girl I knew.
The girl I knew would have shouted, argued, thrown words sharp enough to cut through anything. She would have questioned me, mocked me, made sure I never heard the end of it.
But she didn’t.
She was silent.
And that silence followed me all the way back home.
It stayed even now.
My chest tightened slightly, a discomfort settling deep within me, heavier than I wanted to admit.
It felt like I had done something wrong.
Not just a mistake.
Something worse.
Something that couldn’t be brushed off with logic or justified with anger.
I looked down at the plate again, the food now untouched, waiting.
And for the first time…
I didn’t know what to do next.
I completely lost my appetite.
The food that smelled so normal while cooking now felt tasteless just by looking at it, as if something had drained the life out of it. I stared at the plate for a long moment, my jaw tightening slightly.
She is taking medicines.
She shouldn’t skip meals.
The thought came on its own, unwanted, uninvited.
But why do I care?
I don’t care.
I clicked my tongue in irritation, almost annoyed at myself for even thinking like that. This wasn’t concern. This wasn’t anything. It couldn’t be.
What is this?
I hate this.
I hate the way my mind keeps circling back to her, the way my thoughts refuse to stay where they belong. I just want to get out of all of this—this forced situation, this constant tension, this unfamiliar pull that makes no sense.
I let out a tired sigh, picking up the plate anyway.
Before I could think any further, my feet were already moving toward the room.
The door was slightly open.
I stepped inside.
She was awake.
Sitting on the bed.
For a moment, I just stood there, not saying anything, not moving, just… looking at her.
And then she looked at me.
Our eyes met.
And everything stilled.
There was something strange about that moment, something that didn’t belong to us. No anger. No sarcasm. Just a quiet pause where neither of us seemed to know what to do next.
A question rose inside me before I could stop it.
Who is she to me?
Nothing.
No one important.
Someone who didn’t exist in my life a few years ago, someone I had never even imagined knowing, and now… she was here. Sitting in my room. In my house.
As my wife.
The word felt foreign even in my own thoughts.
Our worlds were never meant to collide like this.
She comes from a life I don’t understand.
I come from a life she would never accept.
We are not the same.
We don’t belong in the same story.
Months are passing faster than I expected.
Soon, it will be one year.
One year of this forced arrangement we call a marriage.
And then we will be free.
We will get divorced.
We will walk away.
Everything will go back to how it was before.
At least… that’s how it’s supposed to be.
But will it?
The thought lingered, heavier than the rest.
Will my life really be the same after she leaves?
Will I be able to go back to that silence… to that routine… to that version of myself that never had to think about anyone else?
Or—
What if she becomes a habit?
The idea unsettled me more than anything else.
Not because I wanted it.
But because I didn’t know if I could stop it.
“Dinner,” I muttered, my voice quieter than I intended as I stepped closer and held the plate out toward her.
She looked at it for a second before taking it from my hands without a word.
No sarcasm.
No complaint.
No reaction at all.
Just silence.
I should have left.
I should have turned around and walked out of the room the moment she took the plate, just like I always do, just like I’m supposed to. But my feet didn’t move. I stayed there, standing a few steps away, watching her as she started eating slowly, carefully, like even that required effort.
There was something unsettling about it.
The way she didn’t argue.
The way she didn’t look at me.
The way she didn’t act like herself.
It felt wrong.
The silence between us stretched, thick and suffocating, filling every corner of the room until it felt heavier than the air we were breathing. Even the faint sound of her spoon touching the plate seemed too loud in that stillness.
I could hear her breathing.
And I could hear mine.
And somehow, that was the only proof that we were both still there, sitting in the same space, sharing something that neither of us knew how to handle.
It felt suffocating.
The thought that had been circling in my mind earlier returned, stronger this time, refusing to be pushed away.
What if she becomes a habit to me?
I stood there, watching her eat in silence, and the question settled deep inside me, uncomfortable and unsettling.
After she leaves… I should be happy.
That’s how it’s supposed to be.
I will finally be free from a marriage I never chose, from a life that was forced onto me without my consent. I should feel relieved. Light. Like I got my life back.
But what if… it doesn’t feel like that?
What if, when I come back to this house, it feels emptier than it ever did before? Not peaceful. Not quiet. Just… empty in a way that echoes.
What if, when I lie down on this bed, I don’t find sleep easily anymore? What if my mind drifts to the way she used to argue just to claim this space, the way she would refuse to move, the way her presence filled the room whether I wanted it or not?
What if I wake up one day and, without thinking, make food for two people… only to realize there is no one sitting across from me?
The thought made my chest tighten slightly.
I have lived alone my entire life.
Since school.
Hostel rooms, unfamiliar faces, quiet nights where no one asked how my day was.
College passed the same way, surrounded by people but never really belonging anywhere.
And when I started working, I chose a house close to the hospital, not because I wanted comfort—but because I was used to being alone.
I built my life around that loneliness.
I got used to it.
I made peace with it.
And then… she came.
Not gently. Not by choice.
She entered my life like a storm, with a threat, with force, with something that made me hate her from the very core of my being. She turned everything upside down, filled my space with noise, with arguments, with a presence I never asked for.
And now…
I am scared.
Not of her being here.
But of what will happen when she is gone.
I dragged my gaze away from her, trying to ground myself, trying to remind myself of everything I know, everything that is real. This is temporary. This has an end. This was never meant to stay.
I have spent years building walls around myself. Not out of fear, but out of habit. It was easier that way. No expectations. No attachments. No one to wait for, no one to leave me behind.
And now…
Without asking, without permission… she has stepped inside those walls.
Loudly. Rudely.
I exhaled slowly, my fingers curling slightly at my side as I tried to push the thought away, but it clung to me stubbornly.
What if one day, I come back home…
And the house is exactly how it used to be.
Quiet. Still. Empty.
No arguments from the next room.
No tantrums about my food.
No unnecessary questions that get on my nerves.
Just silence.
The kind of silence I used to live with so easily.
The kind of silence I thought I preferred.
But now…
What if that silence feels heavier than it ever did before?
What if it doesn’t feel like peace anymore?
What if it feels like something is missing?
The thought made something twist painfully inside my chest.
I looked at her again.
She was still eating quietly, her movements slow, her face unreadable, like she had locked everything inside herself.
I stayed still in my place, the thoughts circling in my head making me feel like I was losing my own sense of reason.
Which idiot thinks like this?
Which sane man sits here and worries about missing someone who ruined his life?
Someone who forced him into a marriage, who threatened everything he holds close, who walked into his life like a storm and never once cared about the damage she left behind.
And yet… here I was.
Thinking about these things.
I clenched my jaw slightly, forcing myself to look at this for what it really was. She is my abuser. That is the truth. That is the only truth that should matter.
Then why does this feel so complicated?
My gaze shifted to her again. She sat there quietly, eating without a word, without a complaint, without that usual spark that irritates me and, somehow, fills the room at the same time.
If I hadn’t left her there…
She would have complained by now.
She would have pushed the plate away, scrunching her nose, saying my food tasted like punishment. She would have made a face dramatic enough to make anyone laugh, only to end up eating it anyway when she got hungry enough.
She would have called me Mr. Justice saviour at least a hundred times by now, just to get on my nerves.
She would have talked endlessly, jumping from one topic to another, making no sense and yet filling the silence so completely that there wouldn’t be space for anything else.
She would have reminded me—again—how stupid I was to get cheated by my ex, only to smirk like she had done something clever.
She would have said she would share the snacks her brother bought with me, as if that was some grand favor I should be grateful for.
But she wasn’t.
She sat there, quiet, distant, like something inside her had shut down.
And somehow…
That felt worse than all her noise.
I walked to the chair beside the bed and sat down, pulling my phone out as if it could distract me from everything that refused to quiet down inside my head.
My thumb moved over the screen, scrolling endlessly, one reel after another playing without meaning, without purpose.
The sound filled the room, but it didn’t reach me.
My hands were slightly shaky.
I don’t even know why.
My parents won’t accept me anymore.
The thought settled heavily, like something I had been avoiding all this while but couldn’t run from anymore. They said their son was dead. Dead—just because I married her.
I can’t even blame them.
Because I didn’t tell them the truth. I didn’t tell them what really happened, didn’t tell them how I was forced, how I was cornered, how I had no choice. I let them believe I chose this. I let them believe I betrayed them.
And now… I am working, earning, sending money home every month… for people who hate me.
A small, bitter smile tugged at my lips before fading just as quickly.
The room suddenly dimmed for a second before a faint brightness flickered through the sky.
I looked up instinctively as the sound of soft thunder rolled in the distance.
Moments later, the first few drops of rain touched the ground outside, carrying with them that familiar scent—the smell of soil meeting rain after a long wait.
It felt strange.
Rain… in the middle of summer.
Unexpected.
Out of place.
Just like everything else in my life right now.
I stood up and walked to the window, closing it slowly as the wind began to push the curtains inward. The smell lingered in the room for a moment before fading away.
I sat back on the chair.
And the silence returned.
Before all this…
Things were different.
My parents used to visit me once every two days, sometimes even more. My mother would bring food, insisting I wasn’t eating properly. My father would complain about something random, just to start a conversation.
And on my days off… I would go home.
Eat the food my mother made. Sit there like nothing in the world was wrong. Like life was simple. Like everything made sense.
But now…
Months have passed.
And I haven’t seen them once.
The distance between us doesn’t feel like miles. It feels like something far greater… something that can’t be crossed easily anymore.
Even after all this ends…
Even after I divorce Viyana…
Will they come back?
Will they look at me the same way again?
Or have I already lost them for good?
My chest tightened at the thought, the weight of it pressing down harder than I expected.
Why am I thinking so much?
Why does everything feel so complicated all of a sudden?
My gaze drifted unknowingly toward her.
She was still there.
Quiet.
Present.
And yet… distant in a way I couldn’t explain.
After the divorce…
After all of this is over…
If I ever see her again, years from now…
What will she be to me?
Will I look at her as a mistake?
A sin that walked into my life and left scars behind?
Or…
Will I see her as someone who once existed in my world, someone who changed something in me before leaving?
Will I ignore her like a stranger passing by?
Or will I…
Smile?
The thought lingered, unanswered, unsettling in ways I didn’t understand.