Bound by Ink, Chosen by Heart

I am in the kitchen making dinner when I hear it—a loud bang that echoes through the apartment. The sound freezes me in place. My heart drops straight to my stomach as fear crawls up my spine. I know that sound—the door. My hands begin to shake even before I turn off the stove. Noah storms in moments later. The sharp smell of alcohol fills the room, and I don’t need to look at his face to know he’s drunk. His footsteps are heavy, angry, unsteady. “Why weren’t you picking up my calls?” he snaps, his voice already raised. I try to explain. I tell him I’m cooking, that my phone is in the other room—but he doesn’t listen. He never does. My words only seem to make him angrier. Before I can move, he is already shouting. Careless. Useless. Always causing problems. Accusing me of things I don’t understand. Fear roots me to the spot. Then his anger explodes. He shoves me hard, and I stumble backward. Pain spreads across my body as he strikes me again. I cry out, lifting my arms to protect myself, but it only makes him more furious. In one violent motion, he grabs the pot from the stove and throws it at me. The food spills, splashing against my clothes and the floor. The warmth burns, but it is nothing compared to the terror flooding my chest. I fall to the ground, shaking, unable to understand how making dinner turns into this. As he continues to yell, all I can think about is how small I feel—how trapped. And how this has somehow become my normal. I clean the apartment in silence. The food he throws still stains the floor, the smell clinging to the walls. My hands move on their own as I wipe, scrub, and pick up the pieces—like cleaning can erase what just happened. When the waste bin is full, I tie the bag and carry it outside. The moment I step into the hallway, I freeze. People are already there. Neighbors stand around our apartment door, some leaning against the wall, others whispering to one another. Their conversations stop the second they see me. I feel every eye turn in my direction. “Are you alright?” a woman asks softly. “We heard everything,” another neighbor says. My throat tightens. I can’t bring myself to answer. “You shouldn’t be here,” someone adds. “This isn’t normal.” An older woman steps closer and gently touches my arm. “My dear, this man will hurt you again if you stay.” They speak over one another—telling me to leave, telling me to report him, telling me that love isn’t supposed to feel like fear. Some beg me. Some warn me. I nod weakly. I whisper my thanks. I tell them I’m fine, even though my voice shakes. Inside, panic screams. What if he hears them? What if they make him angrier? What if I really am the problem? I drop the trash into the bin and rush back inside, locking the door behind me. Their voices stay outside. So does their concern. I stay where I am—alone with the silence and the fear that follows me back into the apartment. I go back into the kitchen and close the door quietly behind me. The apartment is silent again, but not peaceful. The silence feels heavy, like it’s waiting for something. I clean the kitchen one more time, wiping away the last traces of what he threw, then turn back to the stove. I start dinner all over again. My hands tremble as I cut vegetables and stir the pot. Every small sound makes my heart jump—the hum of the fridge, the scrape of a chair, the creak of the floor. I keep listening for his footsteps, afraid of what mood he’ll come out in next. When the food is finally ready, I set the table carefully, as if being extra gentle might keep the peace. The bedroom door opens. Noah steps out slowly this time. No shouting. No slamming doors. His eyes soften when they land on me, and for a moment, I don’t recognize him. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. I freeze. He comes closer, his voice low, almost gentle. He says he was worried when I didn’t pick up his calls. Says he thought something had happened to me. Says the alcohol got to him and he lost control. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he adds. “I was just stressed.” He reaches for my hand. I don’t pull away. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I care about you.” I nod, even though my chest feels tight. Part of me wants to scream. Another part wants to believe him. His words blur what I felt moments ago. Fear mixes with guilt, and guilt turns into silence. When he sits down to eat, I stand there for a moment longer than necessary, then join him. The dinner I remake sits between us, warm and untouched. And just like that, the night pretends to be normal again. The next morning, I wake up before the alarm. The apartment is quiet, and for a moment, I convince myself that maybe last night wasn’t real. I get out of bed and go straight to the kitchen. I make breakfast, pack Noah’s lunch neatly, and brew his coffee just the way he likes it. When he comes out, he smiles. He thanks me. Apologizes again. Tells me how sorry he is for worrying me, how much he loves me, how he can’t imagine losing me. He kisses my forehead, holds my face gently, and promises it will never happen again. I believe him. He drops me off at work on his way to the office, squeezing my hand before I step out of the car. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says softly. I nod and watch him drive away. I work as a cleaner in a high-rated hotel. Long hours. Quiet hallways. Spotless rooms that never stay clean for long. I keep my head down and focus on my work, but it doesn’t take long for someone to notice. A coworker looks at me and frowns. “Are you okay?” she asks quietly. I pull my sleeve down without thinking. She doesn’t press further. She already knows. During lunch, my best friend Elina comes to see me. She says she’s on her way to work and decided to stop by. The moment she sees me, her expression changes. “What happened to you?” she demands. I try to brush it off. I say I’m fine. That it’s nothing. She doesn’t believe me. She gets angry—angrier than I’ve ever seen her. She tells me this isn’t love. That I need to leave. That she’s scared for me. Our voices rise, and people begin to stare. I shut down. Love makes me deaf. My ears block out everything she says. By evening, I am exhausted—physically and emotionally. I am about to leave when I see his car pull up. He isn’t supposed to be here. Confused, I step outside and realize he is already watching me. His eyes aren’t on me alone—they are on the man standing beside me. He is well-dressed, wearing an expensive suit. We are laughing. Before I can explain, he is out of the car. His grip is tight as he drags me toward the door. I try to calm him down. I try to explain. He doesn’t listen. His jealousy burns hotter than his apologies ever did. The drive home is silent. Once inside, his anger explodes. He shouts. Accuses me. Blames me. I try to back away, but there is nowhere to go. In the middle of it all, he throws a glass against the wall beside me. It shatters, pieces scattering across the room. I flinch, my body curling in on itself. I think about how close it comes. And how this time, the apologies won’t be enough to erase the fear. I am meant to go grocery shopping the next day. I also plan to visit my grandmother. I usually stay with her for two days, taking care of her, but when I call, she tells me she’s gone to a neighbour’s housewarming. She sounds happy. Laughing. I don’t want to disturb that. So I decided to come another day. I went home early that evening. The first thing I notice is the shoe. A red heel stands at the entrance—unfamiliar, slim, not mine. My heart sinks. As I step inside, clothes are scattered across the apartment, careless and rushed. My chest tightens as I walk toward the bedroom, already knowing but refusing to believe it. I open the door. Isabella is on top of Noah. Everything stops. Tears slide down my face slowly as shock settles in my chest. Then he sees me. The first thing he says isn’t my name. “You weren’t meant to be back by now.” Something inside me snaps. I ask him why. Why would you cheat on me? After three years together. After I stopped chasing my dreams to take care of him. He looks at me without regret. Then he says it. “That she is better than you. That she is hotter. That she is more career-oriented. That you are just a cleaner.” The words cut deep. Deeper than anything he has ever done. I turn around and walk out of the room, my chest aching, waiting—just for a moment—thinking he might follow me. Thinking he might apologize. Thinking this will finally be the end. But the apartment stays silent. And I realize I am standing alone in a place that was never my home to begin with.