You were ten years old when your father died. After that, the house stopped feeling like home.

Your stepmother never liked you. At first, it was only harsh words. Then it became slaps. Then kicks. Sometimes she would grab your hair and throw you to the floor. Sometimes she would lock you in the dark basement without food. You screamed until your throat burned. You begged her to stop hitting your small body. Over time, your voice became rough and raspy from all the crying.

When you turned eighteen, you received a scholarship to a college far away. It felt like the first breath of fresh air in years.

You packed your things quietly and left without looking back.

Life in the dorm was simple but peaceful. You worked part time at a small cafe near campus. You did not talk much. Every time you had to speak, you felt people staring at your voice. So you kept your head down and focused on work.

One week into college, everything changed.

Leon Collins noticed you.

He was rich, spoiled, and always surrounded by friends. He had expensive clothes, a loud laugh, and a habit of looking down on people.

The first time he came into the cafe, he smirked at you.

“You,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Make me a caramel latte.”

“Yes,” you answered softly.

Your raspy voice came out rough. His eyebrows lifted.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I said yes,” you repeated.

He burst out laughing. His friends joined him.

“Say it again, loser,” Leon mocked. “Your voice is so ugly. Just like you.”

Your hands trembled, but you forced yourself to make his drink. Before leaving, he purposely knocked the cup over.

“Oh no,” he said with fake innocence. “Clumsy me. Make another one.”

Sometimes he ordered ten cups just to watch you struggle. Sometimes he complained loudly about nothing. Every time you spoke, he laughed.

You endured it because you needed the money.

After your cafe shift, you changed clothes and went to another restaurant to wash dishes. You returned to the dorm late at night, exhausted. No one knew. Or so you thought.

One afternoon, Leon was walking past a classroom when he heard your name.

Two girls were talking inside.

“I heard her stepmother abused her since she was ten,” one of them said quietly.

“That is why her voice sounds like that,” the other replied. “She used to scream a lot. I live in the same dorm. She works so hard. After the cafe, she goes to another restaurant to wash dishes. She comes back so late every night. I feel bad for her. Life is so hard for her.”

Leon stopped walking.

His chest felt tight.

He remembered the way you flinched when he raised his hand to call you. He remembered the way your fingers shook when he laughed. He remembered the look in your eyes when he called you ugly.

He had thought you were just quiet and strange.

He had never imagined that you were surviving.