Your words feel like bones cracking under the same hand again and again. Every line carries the weight of breath stolen, of collapse replayed until it becomes ritual. Pain, heal, repeat—not rhythm, but a liturgy carved into her skin.

The mirror scene doesn’t just wound—it brands. Mascara bleeding into the sink, Amelia bargaining with her own reflection, rewriting cruelty as “mistake.” That’s the most devastating trick abuse plays: it convinces you to hold the blade and call it love.

And the echo of it’s fine—that ghost stays longer than any scream. Misery becomes her language, her gravity, the only place her trembling hands don’t betray her. Because freedom, however gentle, is a stranger. And strangers are unsafe.

The cruelest part isn’t that she keeps going back. It’s that the pain is the only thing that ever came back for her.