The shirt fell to the floor with a damp thud, almost imperceptible under the steady rain, but in my head it throbbed like an alarm I'd been waiting years to go off.
I stood motionless in front of his back, unable to tear my gaze away from those scars that didn't belong to any medical diagnosis or any recent accident.
No photo description available.No photo description available.
They were thick, ancient lines, some crooked, others parallel, as if someone had repeated the same act again and again with cruel precision and sickening patience.
I felt the air slowly disappearing from my lungs while my mind tried to find a logical explanation that didn't exist.
"Who did this to you?" —I finally asked, although my voice didn't sound like a question, but rather like an accusation suspended in time.
He didn't answer.
He didn't even open his eyes.
He only clenched his jaw, as if even that small movement were a risk he was no longer willing to take.
The sound of the rain hitting the patio roof grew louder, more persistent, as if it wanted to carry away the silence that was growing between us.
I moved a little closer, cautiously, as if I feared that the simple act of observing too closely might break something invisible.
"I'm not from a fall," I whispered. "I'm not from an illness."
This time, her lips moved.
"Don't go on," she said, barely audible.
But it was already too late.
Because when something has been hidden for so long, the moment it's revealed can't be stopped with a single word.
I felt a chill run through my body when I remembered every warning from my husband, every "no way," every excuse, every shifty glance.
It wasn't worry.
It was fear.
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