His rings, suited around sizable fingers, sliced through the tender skin of my cheek, the warm blood trickling down the side of my face as I stood frozen in place, in utter shock at what had just happened. He slapped me.

He was just as soon trying to console me, keep me quiet, keep me with him. His salty palm pressed against my cheek, stinging the wounds as tears brimmed my eyes.

“I love you. You know I do,” he whispers, not trusting his own voice. It would be so easy for me to stay, to submit to his toxicity, to let myself be consumed by his possessive “love”.

But I can’t. I won’t allow myself to fall back into this harmful cycle of hatred, manipulation, and that claustrophobic feeling. Like I’m stuck. Like I’m drowning, all hopes of returning to the surface gone with the crashing waves.

That night I left, doubts and insecurities ringing in my head. I packed my bag and left, despite how desperately I wanted to look back, to find my way back into his arms. I left, not giving those thoughts a second longer to fester.

I left, and though I’m glad I did, I can’t help but wonder what could’ve been if I hadn’t.