
The nights have become heavier lately. I sit on the balcony, watching the city lights flicker like my thoughts — uncertain, trembling, lost. My heart wants to run back home, to my parents, to the warmth that never judged me. But the world says I should move forward, not backward. That as a girl, I must belong to someone new — a husband, a family not mine.
He came into my life when I needed someone to understand me. His smile felt safe, his words soft — until they weren’t. Over time, love started sounding like anger, promises started breaking like glass. He would apologize, swear he’d change, and for a while, I’d believe him. I wanted to believe him. Because love makes you hope, even when it hurts.
But lately, the words have turned sharper, heavier. He shouts when angry, using words that cut deeper than any wound. I asked him to stop. I begged. Each time, he promised, but the storm always returned.
Now I live between fear and confusion. If I leave, he threatens to ruin my peace. If I stay, I lose myself a little more each day. I look at my reflection and wonder — who am I now? The girl who dreamed of love, or the woman trapped inside it?
My parents think I am strong, independent. They don’t know the weight I carry in silence. How do I tell them that the girl they raised to smile through storms has forgotten how to breathe?
I want to tell them everything — about his anger, his threats, my fear. But I’m afraid they’ll break, too. I’m afraid of their disappointment, of society’s whispers that will blame me for loving the wrong person.
Tonight, as the moon hides behind clouds, I realize something — I cannot heal where I keep getting hurt. Love should not feel like walking on broken glass.
I take my phone and type one message to my parents:
“I need you. Can I come home?”
My hands shake, but my heart feels lighter. Maybe this is what strength looks like — not fighting storms alone, but choosing to step away from them.
I hit send. The night feels quieter now. Somewhere deep inside, I know — I’m finding my way back to myself.




