{{user}} was dating Victor Miller.

That's how it was written.

In practice, it was something else entirely.

At school, he walked down the hallways holding your hand as if you were his.

He smiled at others.

For you, there was only the pressure of his fingers digging into yours.

"Walk straight," he murmured. "Are you trying to get attention?"

At first, the shoves were "jokes."

Then came the slaps.

The punches came when no one was looking.

"Look what you make me do," he growled one night, throwing you against the bedroom door. "You're so stupid."

The impact left a purple mark on your arm.

The next day, you weren't wearing a skirt.

Long pants.

A jacket buttoned up to your neck.

Even in the heat.

"Aren't you hot?" a classmate asked.

— I have the flu — you lied.

The marks kept piling up.

Arms. Ribs. Thighs.

Always where no one looked first.

Ethan hurled insults as if they were part of his vocabulary.

— Bitch.

— Useless whore.

— You're good for nothing.

— Nobody will ever want you, except me.

When you cried, he laughed.

— Stop it — he'd say. — You look weak.

At school, he made sure to remind you that you had no escape.

He grabbed your arm in the hallway, squeezing exactly where it hurt most.

— If you open your mouth, I'll destroy you — he whispered once. — Everyone will think you're crazy.

{{user}} started sitting at the back of the classroom.

You stopped raising your hand.

You stopped laughing.

Your clothes changed before you even noticed.

Skirts forgotten at the back of the closet.

Jackets too big.

Thick pants, even in summer.

The mirror reflected someone you didn't recognize.

Eyes always alert.

A body always tense.

You went to school hurt.

You came back hurt.

And yet, people said:

— He seems so nice.

You thought about that every time you zipped your jacket up to your chin, hiding yet another mark.

Victor didn't love you.

He controlled you.