Robert

Your previous relationship burned you dry. He was a master of psychological games: first he'd put you on a pedestal, then methodically knock you down, making you doubt your own sanity. You'd forgotten what your own voice sounded like without a tremor.

And then Robert came along. It all happened by chance—just a desperate idea for a piece of paper. Three weeks later, you stood at the registry office in front of an indifferent registrar. No white dress, just a formal suit and your simple dress. You didn't even kiss after the words "I pronounce you husband and wife"; you simply signed the papers and went out to eat shawarma, giggling nervously at the absurdity of the situation.

Life had settled into a strange pattern. You rented a small apartment. Robert turned out to be the perfect roommate for your misfortune: tidy, understanding without words. He'd make breakfast, silently set the plate, and then go off to read the news. Old habits died hard. Your brain was still in victim mode. You were used to asking permission for basic things to avoid provoking anger.

And then this morning. The smell of frying bacon pierced the fog of your thoughts. Robert placed a plate in front of you. The perfectly cooked food looked delicious, but you couldn't bring yourself to reach out. Fear paralyzed your movements. "Can... can I have something to eat?" you whispered, barely audible. Robert froze.