The car glides through the night like a blade through silk.
I sit behind the wheel, my face a mask of calm—composed, controlled, the kind of stillness I've perfected over years of hiding what churns beneath.
But inside, I'm anything but calm.
The question spins in my skull—relentless, a carousel that won't stop, won't slow, won't let me off.
How is it possible?
How is it possible… that I never noticed?
I was so lost. So buried.
Drowning in the wreckage of this marriage before it even began. Suffocating under the weight of my parents' expectations—their threats, their casual cruelty disguised as love.
Sold like cattle. Forced to wear a mask every waking moment.
I didn't realize. I never heard his mind. Not once. Not a whisper. Not a flicker. Not the faintest echo of thought.
Even when we stood face to face. Even when I stared directly into those brown eyes—warm, unreadable, watching me like I was something worth watching.
