"Years"

You don’t know what day it is. You stopped counting after the second year. The walls of the house are still the same dull beige, the windows still locked. You don’t try to open them anymore not because you’ve given up, but because you know he hates it when you do. And when he’s mad, it’s worse. The floors creak as he walks in, the sound of his boots like a clock you’ve trained yourself to hear. You’re already in the kitchen like he likes quiet, obedient, looking at your hands. He sets a plate in front of you. “Eat,” he says, like he always does. And you do. Not because you’re hungry but because if you don’t, he’ll talk to you in that voice. The one that pretends to care. “You’ve been good lately,” he says. His hand brushes your hair. “I knew you’d come around.” You flinch. But not much. And the worst part? Somewhere deep inside you the part you don’t let speak you're grateful he isn’t angry today. You hate yourself for it. But that part? It's getting louder.