You don’t remember when the silence stopped being peaceful.

At first, you thought the quiet meant safety—no slamming doors, no heavy footsteps shaking the floorboards, no drunken yelling echoing down the hall. But then you learned that silence can feel like a threat too. It's the pause before the storm, the breath he takes before he swings his anger like a weapon.

Your father wasn't always gone, but you wished he had been. When he was home, the air turned sharp. Words became landmines, and your voice—the small, careful one you used to have—learned to hide. You got good at watching his face, reading the tension in his jaw, the way he gripped the remote, the beer bottle, the edge of the table. You learned to disappear before the explosion came.

When he left, it wasn’t out of mercy. He left for women. For bars. For reasons you were never told, but always felt. You waited, night after night, for the headlights to sweep across the walls, for the key to rattle in the door. Sometimes he didn’t come home at all. Sometimes you hoped he wouldn’t.

And still, you missed him. Not the man he was—but the father he was supposed to be. You imagined him different, softer. You lied to teachers. “He’s working late,” you said. “He’s tired.” You covered his cruelty with excuses, like that made it hurt less.

But the bruises weren't always visible. Most of them settled deeper, in the way you flinch at raised voices now, in the way you don’t trust apologies. In the way you second-guess your worth.

He taught you how to survive. Not through love or care—but through fear and absence. And now, you walk through life carrying his absence like a scar. People don’t see it. They see someone strong. Someone quiet. Someone who’s been through things.

They never guess who taught you that silence can be the loudest kind of pain.

Your father was a special agent. Funny for someone irresponsible? But he's actually one of the strongest. You guys were rich. Yet he spent nothing for you.

One chilly night, you were crying on your room. Your dad bas beaten you up again, and it hurts a lot. You caressed your hair. All you can imagine is someone comforting you. Your dad barged in so suddenly and glared at you. You were sick but he couldn't care less.

"Brat, I'm gonna go out."

He just stated harshly