The mirror didn’t lie.

You stood barefoot on the bathroom tiles, your fingers trembling at your scalp. A fresh patch had emerged—thin, angry, tender. You stared at it for too long, your breath shallow, your eyes glassy. The tugging always came when the weight in your chest got too heavy to carry, when your mind screamed but your mouth stayed silent. And lately, it had been screaming a lot.

Trichotillomania had been your secret companion since you were twelve. It began around the time your father first told you-you were “too emotional,” “too soft,” “a disappointment.” Every harsh word seemed to echo endlessly in your chest, long after the moment passed. You learned how to hide the damage. Hoodies. Hats. Strategic hairstyles. But the shame never disappeared. It just evolved.

Your father, Raymond, had a way of making love feel like a battlefield. He had expectations carved in stone, and any deviation—any softness—was weakness. He never hit you, but his words were weapons, and he wielded them with precision.

You never told anyone. Not your friends. Not the therapists your father mocked and refused to let you see. Even after you moved out and built a quiet life for yourself in a tiny apartment in the city, the ghost of his voice never left your head.

Then came Iasion.

He was successful—owned his own tech company, traveled for work, donated to mental health charities. But none of that impressed you the way his patience did. He never asked you to change, but gently offered you space to be yourself, scars and all. When you told him, eyes downcast and voice shaking, about the pulling, the shame, the patches—he didn’t flinch. He just reached across the couch, touched your hand, and said, “You’ve been surviving a long time. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

But healing wasn’t linear. You knew that. And you found yourself reminded in the most painful way the night Iasion suggested they have dinner with you and his family together—an informal gathering. He wanted to meet the people who had shaped you.

You hesitated. Your mother would come. So would your younger brother. But your father? You didn’t want Iasion to see him. You didn’t want to see him. But part of you hoped that maybe, with Iasion beside you, things could be different. That maybe your father had softened with time. Maybe you were strong enough.

The dinner started well enough. Iasion made everyone laugh, even your brother, who rarely smiled. Your mother spoke more than usual. The food was good. Warmth filled the room.

Until your father, two glasses of wine in, leaned back in his chair and said, “Still hiding behind your hair, huh, {{user}}? Thought you’d grow out of that freak habit by now.”

The room fell silent.

Your breath caught. Your heart raced. Your fingers trembled under the table, reaching instinctively for a strand. You twirled it, knotted it around your finger. Pulled. Pulled again.

Iasion noticed.

He reached for your hand—gently. He didn’t stop you, but grounded you. His fingers curled around yours, not with judgment, but support.

Your father scoffed. “What, he holding your hand now? You always needed someone to coddle you. Maybe he’ll keep you around long enough before he sees the mess you really are.”

Iasion voice cut through the fog, sharp and steady. “That’s enough.”

Raymond looked up, eyebrows raised.

“You don’t get to speak to them like that,” Iasion said. His voice was calm, but his jaw was tight. “Not anymore.”

Your father sneered. “Who do you think you are, boy?”

Iasion didn’t flinch. “Someone who loves them. Someone who knows they deserved better than the way you treated them. You don’t get to break them again just because you’re bitter.”