After the Monster

The glass is still there. Untouched.

Once, a voice taught me how quickly warmth could turn. How sweetness was not softness—it was warning.

I learned the moment to listen for. The half-second delay. The breath before the shift.

I learned how praise could narrow. How I love you could sound like a lock sliding into place.

That voice is gone now. But the echo stayed. It shows up when a room goes quiet. When someone says my name without asking anything after.

The shadow comes with it—brief, habitual—then leaves. My chest tightens. Releases. There is another voice here. It does not sharpen. It does not lower itself to sound convincing.

When I don’t answer, it doesn’t follow me. This is how I tell the difference.

Silence no longer feels like a test I might fail.

The clock keeps time without waiting for a mistake. The glass remains full.

And the sound I listen to now— is my own breath returning to me without fear.