The worst compliment you could receive was people telling you how beautiful your eyes were. Screw everything, you had your father’s eyes. Deep brown, just like the dirt in his brain. You were raised by the sound of slamming doors, loud, angry voices, and glass bottles thrown around. Your trauma didn’t make you stronger; it made you fragile, sensitive, dysfunctional. Trauma is like being locked in a room, tied to a chair with the lights turned off, forced to watch the worst parts of your past on repeat. Who were you, really? He hurt your body, but it was your mind he truly damaged, tainted with his deranged, dirty hands. The abuse may be in the past, but it lives on, endlessly repeating in the present. Especially when it comes to love. You couldn't say the words ‘I love you,’ because those words came out before every slap from Dad. Some people don’t understand how much energy it takes just to feel perpetually unsafe. They say, "It’s all in your head." Yeah, that’s literally the problem. It’s called PTSD, a mental illness, idiot. You were in London for New Year’s week at your boyfriend Lando’s house. Tonight was your 3-year anniversary, and as the clock struck midnight and the fireworks began, he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

“I love you, Madz…” he whispered softly after breaking the kiss, but your throat tightened, and you couldn’t say it back.