People always say the first eighteen years of your life shape who you become.
I think mine shaped the silence inside me.
It was a Thursday—the air smelled like dust and dried-up rain. I remember it not because anything special happened, but because something terrible almost did.
I had just come home from school, still in my uniform, my backpack barely dropped by the sofa. The house was too quiet. My mother wasn't home—probably out working her second shift at the hospital. She always came back around nine, exhausted and too tired to notice me.
And my father... he was home early. That should've been the first warning.
He was sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, beer bottle in hand like he was the king of some broken little kingdom. He looked up at me and smiled—not the soft smile of a father. No. It was something else. Something that made my stomach twist into cold knots.
"You're back early," he said, voice lazy, like syrup dripping too slowly from a bottle.
I nodded. I didn't speak. I never spoke much around him. Something about his voice always felt like a trap. But that day, his eyes lingered too long.
"You're growing up fast," he added. "Looking more like your mother every day."
Those words.
They were supposed to be compliments. They weren't.
He stood up.
And then he walked toward me.
I backed away, just half a step at first. I didn't want to seem scared. But something deep inside me screamed. Something primal. My body understood the danger before my mind could catch up.
When his hand reached out—just inches from my shoulder—I turned and ran. I didn't think. I didn't breathe. I just ran into my bedroom and locked the door.
I stood on the other side, frozen, staring at the handle like it might turn anyway.
It didn't.
But he stood there for a moment, breathing heavy, hand pressed against the wood. "You don't have to be scared of me," he said.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
And then he walked away.
That was the day I realized something cruel:Sometimes the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones you need protection from.
I didn't tell anyone.
Who would I tell? My mother would've never believed me. She loved him too much, or maybe feared him more. And me? I was just the quiet girl in the corner. The one who got good grades. The one who never caused trouble. The one who chose silence because it was safer than the noise.
That night, I sat on my bed, legs pulled to my chest, listening for footsteps I couldn't trust.
My phone buzzed once.
It was Maya, my only real friend from school.
"You okay? You didn't look fine today."
I stared at the screen, thumbs hovering.
I typed:
I think my father tried to—
And then I deleted it.
I typed again:
I'm fine. Just tired.
Sent.
I couldn't say it. The words felt like poison in my throat. If I said it, it would become real. If I said it, it would destroy what little peace I had left.
So I swallowed it.
Like I'd swallowed every scream since I was thirteen.
Like I'd swallowed the memory of all the times he looked at me too long.
Like I'd swallowed the fear of being alone in a house that never felt like home.
The next morning, I wore a smile like makeup.
It cracked at the edges.
But no one looked close enough to see.
At school, Maya hugged me. She smelled like cheap perfume and warmth. "We should hang out after class," she said.
I nodded. I didn't mean it. I just wanted the conversation to end.
That's when I saw him.
Aariz.
He was standing by the lockers, hoodie half on, earphones in, head tilted down like he hated everyone. Maybe he did. But his eyes… when they met mine across the hallway—they didn't look away.
It was the first time someone didn't look through me.
And I hated how much that mattered.
After class, I didn't wait for Maya. I needed space.
I walked alone—slowly—letting the crowd blur past me. I didn't want anyone asking questions. I didn't want kindness. I didn't want eyes on me that might see too much.
Outside, the wind tugged at my scarf, and I held it tighter, as if it could hold me together.
I didn't go straight home. I took the long way through the back alleys, the empty streets, past the old bookstore I loved but never entered anymore. I passed the tea stall with the broken chair, where once, long ago, my dad used to take me for a cup when he still smiled like a real father.
Funny, isn't it?
How monsters can hide behind memories?
When I finally reached home, I noticed it right away.
The door was unlocked.
That never happened. My mother always double-locked it. Always.
I froze. Heart pounding. Every instinct screaming at me.
I stepped inside, slowly. The hallway was dark. My father's shoes were gone.
Relief, at first. But then I spotted a crumpled note on the kitchen table.
"Out with friends. Back late. Heat up leftovers."—Mom
I stood there for a long time.
The silence wasn't peaceful.
It was loud. Violent. Pressing.
I walked into my room and locked the door before anything else. My bag still hung on my shoulder.
I didn't even change. I just collapsed onto the floor and let the cold wooden boards press against my skin.
I wanted to scream.
But no sound came out.
That night, I pulled out the notebook Maya had given me.The one that said: "For the girl who writes more than she speaks."
I opened to the last empty page.
And I wrote:
"I am not safe here. But no one sees it."
"The man who raised me is the reason I can't breathe."
Then I paused.
Tears slipped down silently, one by one. Not a sob. Not a cry. Just quiet.
Then I wrote:
"I don't want to stay quiet anymore. But I don't know how to speak."