My name is Evelyn, and for years I had clung to the hope that marriage meant unwavering support and shared dreams. I had once believed that by giving my all, by trusting with every fiber of my being, I would be rewarded with affection and understanding. But somewhere along the way, that promise faded into a daily cycle of cold words and harsh glances. My husband, Carter, who I had once admired for his charm and intellect, had gradually transformed into a man whose eyes told stories of control and condescension. I no longer recognized the man I had married, and the home that once felt like a safe haven had become a silent prison.

Before the first light of dawn, Carter would already be awake—moving about with a restless energy that betrayed his inner turbulence. His footsteps echoed through the cold corridors of our apartment, and his voice, sharp and clipped, punctuated the early hours with an undercurrent of irritation.

“Finally awake?” he would often remark without any preamble, as if my sleep were a luxury I could no longer afford.

I remember one particular morning as I forced myself out of bed. The air felt heavier than usual, and every step towards the bathroom seemed laden with unspoken regret. I pressed a hand over my belly, feeling the life inside me—a constant reminder that despite the isolation and despair, I was nurturing hope for a future I could no longer predict.

In those early hours, I could almost trace the slow decay of our love through the silence in the hallways and the curt nods at the breakfast table. When Carter spoke, it was often with the tone of someone who had long since checked out of any genuine concern for my well-being.

“Maybe if you didn’t lie around all day, you’d be tired enough to sleep,” he’d say, his voice as cold and precise as the ticking of a clock counting down the minutes of our dwindling time together.