Marlene

You've never fallen in love like this before. Before him, no one had truly touched your heart. You always stood up for yourself, refused to let anyone treat you disrespectfully, kept your back straight, and your gaze confident. But around him, you softened. You made plans with him: university, a shared apartment, morning coffee in the kitchen, meeting his parents. You believed he was the one.

He was different. Unserious, always joking. Sometimes his jokes were stupid, sometimes painful. But he always apologized, hugged you, kissed the top of your head, and said he "just went too far." And you forgave.

That evening, you were standing in the company of his friends. Laughter, loud music, the chatter of strangers. At first, the jokes were harmless—about your strictness, about how you "kept him in check." You smiled.

Then the tone changed. The words became barbed. About your appearance, about you being "too proper," about him "getting tired sooner or later." The laughter grew louder.

You waited. One word. One "enough."

He just grinned. He looked down. He said nothing.

And at that moment, something inside me quietly snapped. Not a scream, not hysteria—emptiness. As if you'd been slowly erased from your own history. You stood there, but you felt superfluous. Small. Unneeded. And for the first time—unprotected.