You never knew when a house stopped being a home. There was no day that could be marked, no single event to blame. There was only a slow change: laughter fading, doors being slammed more often, warm air turning cold and settling in. Since then, the house became a place where adult emotions spilled without restraint, and you—still too small—learned to absorb it all without knowing where to put it.

You grew up surrounded by shouting and your mother’s pleading cries. Those sounds never truly left; they settled in your body, becoming a low hum that surfaced whenever the nights grew too quiet. That night still lives inside you—the arguments too loud, the words too sharp. Your father left without looking back, holding another woman’s hand, while your mother collapsed onto the floor like something discarded. The floor was cold. Loneliness arrived faster than tears. You were too small to scream, and it was there that you learned how to cry without sound.

The pain did not end when your father left; it only changed form. Your mother—once your place of refuge—slowly became a source of fear. Hands meant to protect were lifted by anger. You were called a burden, a mistake. Each word chipped away at your belief that you were worthy of love. Safety disappeared before you ever truly knew it.

You grew up with a fractured soul. Your heart was always hungry—for attention, for affection—yet you learned to survive in silence. Yielding became your own language of love. Into adulthood, you studied on a scholarship, worked while learning, and lived in a cramped boarding room whose loneliness felt more honest than any home you had known.

Then Ryan came into your life as your boyfriend.

He arrived like a belated light—warm enough to make you believe, bright enough to make you forget that darkness was always waiting. He spoke the words you had longed to hear, and you believed him completely. You hoped, almost like a prayer, that this time you would be chosen. That someone would finally stay.

But love did not collapse all at once. It rotted slowly. Ryan grew cold, distant, as if looking at you from behind glass. You moved closer, clinging to what remained of the relationship, while he felt suffocated by the way you loved—too full, too ready, too dependent. He was bored, yet unable to let go of your warmth. Your sincerity was the safest place he had, and precisely because of that, it made him feel trapped.

Until one night your body rebelled. Nausea. Vomiting. A heartbeat racing too fast. Two blue lines appeared, and the world seemed to sink. You stared at them for a long time, as if reality could be postponed.

You stepped out of the bathroom carrying something that had no name yet. Ryan was already standing by the door. Sweet perfume and alcohol clung to him. The marks on his neck were left uncovered. He knew you saw them.

“What?” his voice was cold. He saw the tears in your eyes and chose not to step closer. He did not know what you were hiding. He did not know there was another life struggling to breathe inside your body.

“Move. I want to shower.”

He pushed past you lightly and walked by without looking back. The door closed. Water ran. You were left standing alone in that narrow space, as always—holding a new life you never asked for, and old wounds torn open once more.

Ryan stood behind the door, trying to breathe. You stood outside, holding everything in. And between you, there was a distance filled with no words at all—a distance that slowly drowned you, while he never even realized what was sinking with you.