Until he reveals his control and aggression and blames you for everything bad in his life.
A pit of male rage.
I’m just hoping he’s back in his well-behaved phase. The one where he is on his best behavior to suck her back in. That should give her a brief period of respite.
It is, after all, why people go back time and time again to their abusers.
I just hope she sees the light and gets the fuck out before it’s too late.
124
I LIKE BREWING COFFEE, NOT STORMS
The next morning, Timmy is eerily calm. Too calm. The type of calm that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. His words are measured, his tone soft—almost soothing—but the tension beneath his quiet demeanor hums like a live wire.
I’ve seen this kind of stillness before, and it’s never just stillness. It’s the deceptive quiet, the invisibly brewing agitation that occurs right before a storm. He may seem peaceful on the surface, but underneath, I can sense something volatile waiting to break through, like a pot about to boil over.
He’s outwardly doing and saying all the right things, but I can tell that something’s up. He moves around the apartment with a strange kind of precision, almost like he’s on autopilot, his pace a touch too fast, his gestures just a hair too sharp. I notice little things—a foot tapping a bit too eagerly against the tile, the gleam in his eye catching the light wrong, making his gaze feel both manic and cold. His smiles are fleeting, mechanical, as if he’s trying to convince us both that everything’s okay.
But it’s not okay. Not even close.
I feel it in my gut, the way animals sense a predator lurkingnearby. I don’t know what’s coming, but I know it’s not good. And that makes me hyper-aware of everything I do, as if I’m walking barefoot across shards of glass.
I tiptoe around him, desperate not to set him off. I’ve seen the places his mind can go—what he can say when he feels cornered or wronged. I can’t afford to step wrong again. Not after yesterday.
The memories play on a loop, haunting me. His accusations, each one more unhinged than the last, echoing in my mind. The way his voice twisted with venom as he said I couldn’t be trusted. And then, the moment his anger boiled over—the threats, wild and surreal, like they came from a stranger’s mouth.
He threatened to hurt Sabre.
He threatened to hurtme.
He was out of control, his rage escalating to a place so dark that I barely recognized him. But now, standing here in the deceptive calm of a new day, he’s told me it wasn’t really him. That he was overwhelmed, that his mood disorder was flaring up. That he didn’t mean it.
I want to believe him—needto believe him. Because, if I don’t, what does that say about me?
What does it say about the fact that I’m still here, in this apartment, breathing the same air, sharing the same bed?
I need to believe that it’s a one-off. A mistake. That it willneverhappen again.
It can’t happen again.
But the fear lingers, coiled tight in the pit of my stomach. I don’t hang out with people who behave like this. I’ve drawn boundaries in my life, especially in my career—held people accountable when they crossed the line. But now? Here I am, in the thick of it, pretending everything is fine. Tiptoeing. Apologizing with smiles and kind gestures, as if I’m smoothing over cracks in a fragile vase, hoping it doesn’t shatter in my hands.
I play the part of the perfect fiancée as best as I can. I laugh at his jokes, offer him snacks when I grab something from the fridge, compliment him on things I know he likes to hear. I mirror his mood,carefully watching him for any signs that he might be slipping. I want to keep him happy—calm—just long enough to survive the day.
I let him pick what we watch on TV for the entire day, even though the thought of sitting through more mind-numbing action flicks and slasher movies makes my skin crawl. But, if it keeps him stable, it’s worth it. Anything is worth it.
Every now and then, his eyes flash with irritation—over a misplaced tone in my voice, or when I hesitate too long before answering a question. It’s subtle, but it’s there. I have a feeling he’s observing me as closely as I’m watching him. Little pinpricks of agitation, bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to erupt.
I glance over at him, out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge where he’s at. He’s still too quiet, too still. It’s like he’s recharging, saving up his energy for something.
The memory of yesterday twists in my gut again. It could have gone so badly. If I hadn’t managed to defuse things, if I hadn’t said the right things to calm him down… I shudder to think of how it might have ended.
Hehasto stop, or he has to be out of my life.
It’s that simple.
Because, while I care about him, I know I’d survive without him. I know it would hurt—God, it would hurt so badly—but I’d be okay, eventually. And, most importantly, I’d be alive.