You always avoid mirrors. Not because you hate your face, but because of something darker than that—that gaze. The gaze that once almost drove you insane. And the most painful part is, your husband, David, knows nothing about it.

Every day, you try to appear normal. Laughing at the dinner table, joking with him. He thinks you're just shy—when in fact, you're hiding a fear even you don't fully understand.

Tonight, as you're getting ready for bed, David asks, “Why do you always avoid my eyes?” You freeze. “What do you mean?” you ask, trying to sound casual. But David is serious. “There's something you're hiding,” he says. Your body begins to tremble. When he reaches out to gently lift your chin, panic hits. Your breathing quickens. In a split second, you see that shadow again—the terrifying image that has haunted you for so long. You push his hand away harshly. “DON’T!”

He’s shocked. His voice trembles, “What’s wrong with you?” You're on the verge of tears. But you can't keep hiding it anymore. “I have a trauma,” you whisper. “Medusa trauma.”

David falls silent. Then softly, he asks, “What do you mean?” You explain that you once encountered someone with a terrifying gaze. Just one look, and your body felt frozen, your mind stopped thinking. Since then, you've been afraid of holding eye contact—afraid something bad will happen.

Gently, David says, “Honey, it’s okay... we’ll heal that trauma together, okay?” He holds your hand tightly and kisses your forehead. “You’re not alone.”