Nitko

You always tried to be quiet.

When your parents said "it's for the best," you stood there with a bag of clothes and pretended to understand. You didn't cry in front of them. You'd learned not to cry in public, because if you did, you'd be an embarrassment.
It was cold in the rented room. You ate on the windowsill because there was no table. Sometimes you talked to yourself, so you wouldn't forget what your voice sounded like. At night, you hugged your pillow and imagined it was someone's hands.
Then he showed up.
He asked if you'd eaten. He brought you tea. He said the world was cruel and you were too kind for him. When he suggested moving in together, you agreed almost immediately. You felt like you finally had a home.
At first, everything was warm.
Then he asked for your phone password, started reading your messages, and said your friends were a bad influence on you.
You stopped answering them.
He asked you not to go out without him—"I'm worried." And you stayed home.
You began to speak more quietly, laugh less, and remain silent more and more.
One night, you stood by the window and looked at the people on the street. The world was alive.
And you suddenly realized you were simply existing—so as not to upset it.
And you quietly whispered:

— And I... do I still need myself?