Her eyes didn’t just look at me, They accused me. Sharp, unblinking, like they were carrying my pain for me because I was too tired to hold it anymore. Her lips moved gently, almost lovingly, but the words were soaked in anger. “How could you forgive them?” She turned her head away, as if facing me meant facing everything I survived. Her voice dropped, quieter now, broken at the edges. “After all they did to you.” I stepped closer. Slow. Careful. Like my past was glass scattered on the floor. My hands rested on her shoulders, they trembled under my touch. “I know,” I said. And my voice cracked, because knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. “I remember the nights I begged myself to stay strong. I remember being hurt and convincing myself it was normal. I remember shrinking so others could feel bigger.” I didn’t forgive them . They don’t get that peace. I forgave myself, for not leaving sooner, for loving people who taught me pain, for thinking endurance was the same as worth. The memor...