Not There

He always touched me like he was checking I was still there. Not urgently. Not roughly. Just a hand on my wrist, my shoulder, the small of my back when we moved through rooms together. A habit I learned to expect before I learned to question. I told myself it was affection, that he needed closeness the way some people need reassurance. I never pulled away. I didn’t want him to think I could disappear again.

Everyone else thought he was attentive. I thought I was lucky. They noticed the way he waited for me, the way his hand always found mine in crowds. No one ever questioned it. Neither did I. Not at first.

I learned what unsettled him without being told. A pause before answering. Standing too far away in public. Forgetting to text when I said I would. None of it was serious enough to argue about, just small things I could fix before they became problems. When he went quiet, I searched myself for the cause. I replayed conversations, counted minutes, and revised my tone. There was always something I could have done differently.

When I got it right, everything was easy. His voice softened. His hand stayed warm. The room felt safe again. I learned how quickly that safety could disappear. There were moments I learned not to bring up. Stories that made him tense. Names that made him look away. It was easier to edit myself than ask why.

The first time I got it wrong, he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t touch me at all. He moved through the room without looking at me, as if I had become furniture he hadn’t meant to keep.

After that, I noticed the shift sooner. I learned how to adjust before the silence had time to settle. I smiled earlier. I agreed quicker. I filled the space before it widened. I learned not to notice.

This routine had become seamless. I struggled to remember my life before it, as if the past had lost its edges. Childhood memories blurred. Names surfaced, without context. I learned not to question it. It was easier that way.

I stopped noticing how little space I took up. How carefully I moved through rooms. How often I waited to be spoken to. He never asked me to change. I just learned which version of myself kept everything quiet.

My sister noticed a shift. “You’ve changed.” “You’re quieter these days.” The words felt like prompts. Something stirred, faint and unfinished. Memories surfaced, less clear than before.

I redirected the conversation before they could settle. Redirection came easily. It had already become a habit.

He noticed it later. Not what she said. Only that she had spoken at all.

He didn’t ask what we talked about. He didn’t need to. His hand stayed on my arm a moment longer than usual that evening, fingers resting as if they were waiting for something beneath my skin to react. I told him she was tired. That work had been stressful. That people sometimes say things without meaning them. He nodded, satisfied. I repeated it to myself until it felt true.

After that, I corrected myself before anyone else could. I kept answers short. Neutral. I learned which versions of my day sounded acceptable when repeated aloud. When memories surfaced unexpectedly, I filed them away without examining them, like items returned to the wrong shelf. I didn’t feel watched. I felt managed. By myself, mostly.

After that, the gaps became harder to manage.

Sometimes I would catch myself mid-thought, unsure how I’d arrived there. Standing in the kitchen with the cupboard door open. Holding my phone without remembering why I’d picked it up. I told myself it was exhaustion. Everyone forgets things. Everyone drifts.

He began finishing my sentences for me. Not often. Just enough that I noticed. Just enough that I let him. When I corrected him once, gently, he smiled and said “That’s what I meant.” I nodded. It felt easier than insisting on the difference.

I started finding evidence of decisions I didn’t remember making. Appointments already booked. Messages already sent. Clothes laid out that I would have sworn I hadn’t chosen. When I asked, he reminded me. Casually. Kindly. He had always been better with details.

“You told me,” he’d say.

“Oh,” I’d reply.

“You don’t remember?”

“I do now.”

The lie settled quickly.

At night, his hand stayed on me longer than before. Not possessive. Anchoring. If I shifted, his fingers tightened just enough to register. No restraint. Reassurance. I learned to sleep around it.

Once, half awake, I tried to move his hand away. My wrist stopped before I realised why. I stayed awake until morning.

It became difficult to picture myself alone. Not lonely—blank. When I imagined leaving the room without him, the image stalled, unfinished, like a sentence without a verb. I stopped trying. Somewhere along the way, I stopped leading myself.

I noticed the mirror last.

It wasn’t dramatic. No shock. Just a moment where my reflection felt slightly delayed, as if it was waiting for instruction. I lifted my hand. It followed. A fraction too carefully.

“There you are,” he said.

I smiled before I knew why.