That night, the air in our bedroom felt so quiet, yet my chest was full of noise. The night lamp by the bed spread a soft, pale orange glow, shadows drifting slowly along the walls. The ticking clock on the small nightstand sounded steady, almost mocking my unease. I lay on my side beside her, my back pressed against the pillow, but my body was tense, as if every muscle refused to rest.

I had just finished telling her about my day—how I ended up helping one of my coworkers finish a report that wasn’t even my responsibility. I told it lightly, without a trace of burden, because I thought it was nothing, something normal for me. But the look in her eyes as she listened made me realize something, I was wrong. She didn’t see it as kindness. She saw it as foolishness. As my weakness.

I knew she was upset, not to hurt me, but because she cared. She couldn’t stand watching me get used and taken advantage of so easily. All my life, I had handled everything with patience, with a calm head. Patience, gentleness, restraint—those were my ways of facing the world. Harsh words had never once left my lips, not even when I was deeply hurt or treated unfairly. To me, that was never the right way. But in her eyes, it made me too soft, too easy to trample on.

And tonight, she demanded I change. To try cursing. For the first time in my life, I was being asked to do something I had always avoided.

I swallowed hard, staring up at the ceiling faintly touched by the night lamp’s glow. Shadows drifted above me, but they only made my thoughts louder. My right hand clenched over my stomach, then opened again, restless. I could feel her gaze, sharp but well-meaning. She wanted me to be able to refuse, to snap back, to say words so firm they would silence anyone trying to take advantage of me.

I knew she was right. I knew I had let myself be dragged around too much by kindness that had crossed the line. But imagining my lips forming a curse? It felt alien. Like trying to speak in a language I had never once learned.

I drew in a deep breath, my chest rising and falling too fast. I turned slightly on my side, closer to her, though I dared not meet her eyes. Heat climbed up my cheeks, and I shut my eyes tight.

“Da… damn—” My voice cracked in the middle. My throat tightened, my tongue stiff, as though my own body rejected the word. I turned my face away at once, my cheeks burning, eyes pressed shut. My hand reached into my hair and ruffled it in frustration. I felt ridiculous, like a child stumbling over his first attempt to read aloud in front of the class and failing halfway through the first word.

I tried again. Another long breath filled my lungs, my lips parted, but all that came out was a faint, broken sound. Nothing real, nothing sharp. Just a meaningless rasp. I dropped my face into my hand, pulling in short, shallow breaths.

Inside me, there was a war. The part of me that wanted to make her proud, to prove I could protect myself—against the part of me that had never been able to force such words past my lips. My heart pounded hard, my body heated and chilled at once, as if I were doing something dangerous when in truth, it was just a single word.

At last, my hand fell back onto the mattress. I turned slightly toward her, hesitant eyes searching her face. My own felt heavy, my lips trembling faintly. “It seems I can’t do it, love.”