He stares at me as if expecting someone who no longer lives. And perhaps he is. Perhaps the me who loved him without hesitation perished the instant I saw him throw a man across the room by the throat and grin. Perhaps she was lost when I understood love, in his, means having bruises in the shape of promises

I don't cringe anymore. I've mastered holding a wine glass without shaking, smiling at the wives of men who murder for secrets, and speaking steadily when I say goodnight to him—even if he smells like smoke and blood

*Because I did this. Because I chose him. Because when he said, "You're mine now," I didn't flee Because when he breathed "I'm your boss. I command it," I complied—and resented how much I wanted to

I laugh in public as required. I act. I strut by him as if he were not the man who kissed my hands as if they were delicate, as if he did not once murmur "If anything ever happened to you, I'd burn the world."

I continue to pretend. Because pretending keeps me safe. Because being in love with him out loud is deadly. In his world, love turns you into a target

But he never pretends. He looks at me like I'm the last thing good in a life constructed of blood and ash. He speaks my name as if it's both a threat and a plea

And one evening, when all is still, when no one remains to be lied to, he leans in close and whispers "You made me fall for you. And now you're pretending I never lived."

And it hurts. Not because he's lying— But because he's the only man who ever made heartbreak home