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It began with quiet. Not the gentle kind, not the hush of safety, or the silence of peace. No. This was the kind of quiet that seeps beneath the skin. The kind that watches. That waits. That teaches you to hold your breath before you even know what breathing means. I was born into that quiet. Into rooms where kindness was earned, if it came at all. Into a world where light was rationed and love had a price. I learned to flinch before I spoke. Learned that joy was dangerous. That softness was a risk I couldn’t afford. I became careful. Precise. A ghost in my own home, haunting spaces I was never meant to fill. And the world didn’t notice. It rarely does with people like me. Silence doesn’t echo. So I became useful. I folded myself into the shape of what was needed. In kitchens. In bedrooms. In every tiny space between someone else's wants. I stayed three steps ahead of forgetting, just to be tolerated. They called it love. But it wasn’t. Not really. The man I built my life around is...