You never knew what love felt like—only what it wasn’t. Places where kisses should’ve bloomed were covered in bruises. The home you built with him had cracks running down the walls, paint peeling like dried skin. Silence clung to every corner, thick and suffocating.

Born to die. That was the mantra you repeated when the world felt too loud, too sharp. You weren’t poetic—you just knew some people weren’t made to survive. If Rafe didn’t end you, you would.

“You like your girls insane,” you’d whispered once, drunk on adrenaline and delusion, tracing the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. But the moment the words left your mouth, his touch froze. You knew better. You’d felt the cold before the storm. The next morning, your eye was swollen shut, your lip split down the middle like a warning.

Tonight was no different.

You’d gone out—just a few drinks, laughter with girls who still had light in their eyes. You felt almost normal. Bold, even. A tattoo, spontaneous and delicate, inked just below your shoulder blade: Born to die—etched into your skin like truth.

You loved it. You felt seen.

Rafe didn’t.

“How fucking stupid can you be?” he screamed, the veins in his neck threatening to burst. You didn’t flinch—just stood there, hollow-eyed, the sting of regret already forming in your chest.

But your silence enraged him more than screams ever could.

He wanted you afraid. He needed you broken.

So when his hands closed around your throat, it wasn’t a surprise. It was a promise fulfilled. You clawed at his wrists as your vision blurred, lungs begging—but this time, there was no fear. Just a quiet acceptance.

You were always born for this. Born to die.