The Summer

It was supposed to be a summer of second chances.

Of rebuilding.

Of maybe forgiving each other enough to begin again.

She should’ve known better.

But love, when mixed with fear, becomes a slow poison—easy to swallow when you’re still hoping it might save you.

It started with small things. A slammed cabinet. A raised voice. His moods shifting like thunder under the skin.

He accused her of things she hadn’t done, said she was “lucky” he stayed at all, called her names that sank deeper than bruises. He’d apologize in the morning, hold her tight, cry into her shoulder like he was the broken one. And she’d believe him. For a while.

Until the night he shattered her glass table with his fists.

Until the time he punched a hole through her closet door because she asked where he’d been for two days.

Until he took her phone, her keys, her breath—pressed her into the kitchen wall so hard her ribs screamed—and told her, “Look what you made me do.”

That summer, she learned how to live in shadows. How to flinch at sounds that resembled the turning of his car engine. How to shrink her voice into something untraceable. How to hide money in freezer bags beneath loaves of bread just in case she had to run.

But he left before she could.

He didn’t just leave—he erased her.

Took her things. Her clothes, her laptop, her passport, even the damn spare toothbrush. Emptied her bank account while she was out trying to pick up extra shifts. Left her with three months of unpaid rent, a broken lease, and a hole in the wall shaped exactly like his rage.

She came back to an apartment that smelled like destruction.

She sat on the floor for hours, unsure whether to cry or scream, until the landlord knocked and asked when she’d be out.

She had thirteen dollars to her name.

And nowhere to go.

She tried everything.

Selling handmade jewelry. Washing dishes at bars under fake names. Couch-hopping. Answering sketchy job listings from strangers who asked her to smile before they even asked her name.

One of them didn’t let her leave.

He smiled, too.

And locked the door behind her.

She didn’t tell anyone.

Not about the assault.

Not about how she showered five times after and still didn’t feel clean.

Not about the bleeding. Or the guilt. Or the way her body felt like it belonged to someone else.

She stayed quiet.

Because there was no one left to tell.

Her mother died that fall.

Then her father, barely two months later.

And in between grief and paperwork, she found out that the man—the first one, the one who started it all—had moved in with another woman. Told her the same lies. Painted her, too, as “the crazy ex.” Said she had destroyed his life. That she stole from him. That she made him violent.

He was always good at flipping the mirror.

Even better at making it look like she broke it.

But what he didn’t know—what he never imagined—was that someone else had seen. A friend-of-a-friend. A camera left running. A voice recording he forgot was happening during one of his louder rants. Evidence she didn’t even know existed until one day it arrived in her inbox.

A digital ghost.

Proof that she wasn’t the one losing her mind.

Proof that someone believed her.

She didn’t do anything with it.

Not yet.

Not because she was scared.

But because for the first time, he should be.

She lives different now.

Sleeps with the light on.

Flinches when tires roll too slow down her street.

Still avoids certain music, certain scents, certain jokes.

She hasn’t dated in over a year. Not because she doesn’t want love. But because she can’t afford to trust the wrong eyes again.

Not after what it cost her.

But she’s building something.

Little by little.

Clean mornings.

Heavy therapy.

Small friendships.

Work that doesn’t require smiling for safety.

And a version of herself that doesn’t apologize for surviving.

People still say summer like it’s always soft.

Like it’s about lemonade and ocean air.

But not every summer ends in August.

Some summers stretch like scars across the body of your life.

Some summers leave doors open you can never fully close.

And some?

Some summers you never come back from.

You just learn to live beyond them.

And that, too, is a kind of miracle.

Author’s Note:

This is a fictionalized narrative inspired by themes of betrayal, abuse, survival, and resilience. If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence or sexual assault, please reach out to a local support organization or hotline. You are not alone. There is help. There is safety. There is healing.

With Love 🫶🏽