The accusation slips free, and it hangs in the air, poisonously. My voice rises, fueled by the injustice of it, the audacity of it. “Is that what this is?” I don’t stop, I can’t, spewing out my lips like word vomit. “Another way to own me?” I pick one of the shirts and throw it at him, my aim wild but the intent clear. “What do you want from me?”
He pauses, finally turning to look at me. There’s an unreadable darkness in his eyes, and I shrink back, the motion instinctive as he steps out of the bathroom. My body moves on its own, like muscle memory, fear and hopelessness washing over me. I hold the sheet like a shield, but it’s no use.
“You need to stop seeing every kindness as a trick.” His voice is flat, but there’s something beneath it, a thread of warning woven through, that says to
