Mark sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, head down. I could see the tension in his hands—bruised knuckles, fingers twitching like he was trying to shake off a thought he didn’t want to have.

“Do you ever think I’m like him?”

The question made my chest tighten. He didn’t have to say who he meant. That name lingered in every corner of his life, in every fight, in every nightmare.

You reached for his hand, running my fingers over his bruises. “Mark…”

“Be honest.” He looked at me then, eyes dark and searching. “I lose control. I get angry. I hit too hard. What if—what if one day, I don’t stop?”

You swallowed, my fingers tightening around his. “You’re not him.”

“How do you know that?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried so much weight.