HE LOVED ME WHILE LOVING HER

I was eighteen when I learned that love could bruise. Not the kind of bruise you see on the skin at first — the kind that starts inside the heart and slowly spreads into the body, turning every touch into fear. My name is Liana Moore, and before Damien Cole, I believed love was supposed to feel like safety. I met him in a small café near the university road, where I worked after school wiping tables and serving tea. He came in wearing a white shirt and a soft smile, the kind of smile that made you feel chosen. “You look like someone who carries too much sadness for your age,” he said, handing me money for his drink. I laughed nervously. No one had ever spoken to me like that before. From that day, Damien started coming every afternoon. Sometimes he brought roses. Sometimes novels about tragic love. Sometimes stories about his life. He told me his ex had destroyed him. That she refused to let him go. That all he wanted now was peace. When he asked for my number, my hands were shaking as I typed it in. Three weeks later, under the yellow streetlight outside my hostel, he said the words that changed everything. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Liana.” No one had ever said that to me before. So I believed him. The first night we were together, I expected candles and music and slow kisses. Instead, it was rushed. His hands were heavy. His breathing sharp. When I whispered, “Please… slow down,” he kissed me harder and said, “This is how passion feels.” It hurt. Afterward, in the bathroom, I stared at my reflection and froze. Dark fingerprints were already forming on my thighs. When I asked him why he hurt me, he pulled me into his arms and whispered, “You’re just sensitive. You’ll get used to it.” That night, I cried silently beside him while he slept peacefully. And that was how loving Damien began.