The Digital Shadows: Love, Lies, and Longing (Part 9)

 Returning Home with Lies

I don’t even know where to start. Every time I think he has changed; he proves me wrong. Again and again, he fails me. He wants my love, my loyalty, my silence—but never my voice. I wasn’t supposed to question him. I wasn’t supposed to raise my voice. I was just supposed to endure.

That night, two days before my internship was over, I went to meet him. I wanted to see him, to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be different. I fell asleep in his apartment, feeling safe for a fleeting moment. But when I woke up around 3:30 AM, he wasn’t beside me. A cold emptiness filled the bed where he should have been. My heart started to pound in fear, an eerie silence filling the air.

I walked out, and there he was—sitting outside, lost in his own world, holding a rolled joint between his fingers. My heart dropped. I stood there, frozen, watching him inhale, watching him let go of everything except the high he was chasing. Inside, I was breaking. My mind screamed, but my lips stayed shut. I didn’t want to fight. Not this time. Not when my body was already weak from the cramps that had been torturing me all day.

Still, I asked him to come inside and sleep. I turned to walk away, pretending I didn’t see what I saw. But he followed me in, his eyes dark with something I couldn’t recognize. He made me sit. He started again—the same questions, the same accusations. My past. My choices. My worth. The words cut deeper than knives, each syllable slashing into my already shattered heart.

I told him I wasn’t feeling well. I begged him not to argue. But he didn’t care. He never did.

Then, he did the one thing that always scared me the most—he asked me to leave.

Tears burned my eyes as I packed my things. I had done this before. I had walked away before. But this time, I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to go. He watched me, his face twisted in anger. And as we rode through the empty streets, I sat behind him on the bike, gripping my bag, gripping my heart. The wind felt colder than usual, but not colder than his touch.

And then—

The first hit.

His fist slammed into my leg, then my chest. I couldn’t breathe. He hit me again. And again. The streetlights blurred. My world tilted. I fought back the only way I could—I bit him. I hit him on the head. He roared in anger, shouting, cursing, as if I was the one who had crossed the line.

He snatched my phone from my hand and before I could stop him, he raised it high—

CRACK.

The phone shattered against the road. And before I could react, he swung it at me, the sharp edge of the broken screen slamming into my forehead. Pain exploded. A warmth trickled down my face. I touched my forehead, my fingers coming away red. Blood.

I gasped. “I’m bleeding…” My voice shook, barely above a whisper.

He laughed. A loud, cruel, soulless laugh. “I’m so happy,” he said. And he meant it.

My head spun. My white top turned red. The world around me blurred, but his laughter rang in my ears, mocking my pain.

Then, just like that, he changed. His hands, the same ones that had hurt me, were suddenly gentle, holding my face, whispering apologies, fake concern dripping from his lips. He rushed me to the hospital, like a caring boyfriend. Like a man who loved me. And I let him.

I let him because I was too weak to fight.

For the next three days, I couldn’t move. The bandage on my forehead was a constant reminder of the nightmare, but somehow, I let myself believe the illusion he created. He stayed with me, took care of me, made me forget. His touch, once violent, was now soft, tricking me into thinking he was different.

And then, he did what he always did.

He offered me a way to escape.

A joint in his hand, held out for me to take.

I refused. He insisted. I refused again. He pushed. I gave in. And the moment the smoke filled my lungs, the pain disappeared. The past three days, the blood, the words, the scars—they blurred, faded, vanished. I laughed. I laughed like nothing ever happened.

And just like that, I was his again.

When the time came to submit my internship report and laptop, I went to the office with the bandage still covering my wound. 

Then, I left. Without a phone. Without a goodbye.

I went back home. And I lied.

I told my parents I fell down the PG stairs. They believed me.

Because even I wanted to believe it too.

Maybe if I said it enough times, it would become true. Maybe if I convinced myself, I could erase the reality. Maybe if I hid the truth long enough, I could pretend I wasn’t in love with my own destruction.

But deep down, I knew.

I knew that this wasn’t the end.

Because I still wasn’t strong enough to leave.

Not yet.