I THOUGHT It Was Love

The shadows came first. Soft, insidious, curling at the edges of his words and settling like smoke in the corners of my chest.

At first, I thought it was love. But love doesn’t thrive in silence and doesn’t creep into your soul like fog on a winter’s night.

He found me in the coffee aisle, of all places. His smile was disarming, his charm practiced. “Coffee or tea?” he asked, holding up two boxes like a magician offering a choice.

I chose him. He painted my life with colors I didn’t realize I was missing—flowers, dinners, late-night calls.

I didn’t notice how quickly he began erasing my colors, replacing them with gray.

The isolation began subtly: a raised brow when I lingered on the phone with a friend, a quiet sigh when I mentioned family. “Why do you need them?” he’d ask, and I’d dismiss the unease creeping into my thoughts.

Then came the rules.

Don’t talk to my friends. Don’t tell anyone what happens here. His mother became his enforcer, her loyalty as unquestioning as it was cruel. If I confided in her, she would nod sympathetically, only to report back. One night, I saw the cracks in his charm. He came home late, smelling of whiskey and silence. When I asked where he’d been, his face turned cold.

The next day, he apologized with flowers.

“I’ve been stressed,” he said, and I believed him because I wanted to. But the shadows grew heavier after that, curling tighter around me. I remember the night I found him locked in the bathroom. The sound of water running couldn’t hide the click of a lighter. When he finally stumbled out, his eyes were glassy, his words slurred. My daughter was asleep—or so I hoped.

The smell of shame and smoke lingered long after he passed out. I wanted to scream, to push him out, but fear held my throat. What if he begged? What if he turned the shadows on me? My daughter trusted him once, even called him “stepdad.” She saw him as a protector, someone who would never hurt us.

The night she found him in the bathroom, pipe in hand, her trust shattered. “Mom, I think he’s using drugs,” she whispered, her voice brittle.

The betrayal in her eyes mirrored my own. I wanted to shield her, but the shadows had already seeped into her world.

He mirrored everything around him—his boss, his friends, even strangers he envied. He adopted their accents, their habits, their vices.

But he never mirrored me. He couldn’t. My light was foreign to him, something he couldn’t understand, only consume.

Once, he sneered, “Why can’t you be more like his wife?” His disdain cut deeper than I let on. The shadows weren’t just metaphorical. I saw them once—really saw them. It was late, and he was drunk, muttering about his job and the people who “didn’t appreciate him.” His voice dropped, guttural, and his eyes flickered red.

Behind him, I saw something dark, shifting, like smoke with claws. I blinked, and it was gone. He laughed at my expression, but I knew. The shadows weren’t just his—they were feeding on him, on me, on everything I loved.

I started escaping in small ways. My daughter and I played games, building worlds where we could be heroes, where shadows couldn’t follow.

I pretended to be strong, a sorceress wielding light, but the truth was messier. I was afraid—afraid of what he might do if I left, afraid of the emptiness he’d leave behind.

But fear wasn’t enough to keep me.

The breaking point wasn’t a storm. It was a whisper. One night, I stood in the kitchen, watching him rant about his life, his endless complaints. I realized I felt nothing. Not love, not anger—just a hollow, aching nothing.

And in that emptiness, I found my answer. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save us. But I could save myself. Leaving wasn’t easy.

The shadows still linger, whispering doubts and fears. But I’ve learned to keep a light burning, small but steady, enough to hold them at bay. My daughter and I are rebuilding, piece by piece, world by world.

She found her strength long before I found mine, and now we share it.

Signed,

That Girl Aidys Poetry

@aidyspoetry