Long ago, I used to be someone else. I don’t know if I can be her again, but I can build something new. A life where I get to decide who I am.

But can I?

His words still play on repeat in the back of my mind. You won’t make it without me, Henrietta. You’re nothing without me.

I used to believe him, believe that I was nothing.

Not anymore.

Leaving is my only option. I have to escape because the alternative . . . I refuse to consider it. I don’t know if I’ll succeed, but I’d rather fail trying than die standing still.

I stare at the duffel bag lying open on my bed. What does a lifetime of control look like when you strip it down to the essentials?

Not much.

Two pairs of jeans. A few shirts. Tossed in without thought, practical, forgettable. No fancy makeup, just the essentials. A few pieces of jewelry my parents gave me when I was young—reminders of who I used to be. I’m taking them not because I want the memories, but because maybe they can be pawned to help me start a new life.

My grip tightens on the zipper because they were the ones who pushed this marriage. Did they really believe this was good for me? That this was love?

The only time I told my mother what was happening, she brushed it aside. He’s your husband, Henrietta. You should be asking yourself what you’re doing wrong for him to have to teach you how to behave.

The closet smells like him. His expensive cologne lingers in the fabric of tailored suits and designer dresses, all hanging in perfect rows—curated for a life that was never mine. But behind them, tucked away for months, is my secret.

A jar stuffed with cash. Fake IDs—Freedom, waiting.

My escape plan.

My chance.

I shove the closet doors shut. Walk away without looking back.

In the bathroom, I grab a small bag of toiletries. My reflection in the mirror stops me. The woman staring back looks composed, poised, polished. A stranger in her own skin. Someone who has spent years perfecting the role she was forced to play.

Fear presses in, testing the limits of what I can hold together. And then, the questions swirling inside my head: What if he finds me? What if I fail? What if⁠—

No.

I refuse to think like that. Not now. Not when I’m finally choosing to fight.

In the corner of my room, a worn, oversized hoodie peeks out from a pile of forgotten clothes. The only thing I ever bought for myself—an impulsive purchase from a lifetime ago, when I still believed in small freedoms. Soft, comfortable, unremarkable.

I pull it on, and for the first time in years, I feel like me.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.