I saw him on the news tonight in his army uniform, standing straight and proud while the reporter talked about courage like it was stitched into his skin. Everyone else probably saw a hero. I saw the man who taught my body how to flinch. And somehow, even after everything, my first thought was still: God, he looks beautiful. I think that is the cruelest part of abuse. The love does not die when the bruises fade. It rots slowly inside you instead. Quietly. Patiently. Waiting for a photograph, a dream, a familiar voice to bring it back to life. Two years. Two entire years and I still belong to him in ways nobody can see. My body remembers him better than my mind does. It remembers the fear before the door even opened. It remembers the sound of his boots across the floorboards. It remembers how small I became around him, how obedience felt safer than speaking. Sometimes I hate myself for admitting this, but there are nights I miss the control so badly my chest aches