I loved that bench.
It became my sanctuary, a place where I could find peace away from the chaos.
It wasn’t much—just an old wooden seat, slightly uneven, tucked away beneath a tree at the far end of the park. But to me, it was everything. A place where I could sit and let the world blur around me, where I could just exist without feeling like I had to defend myself.
I couldn’t stay for too long though. He would notice I was gone and come looking for me.
I had to be careful, had to time it just right. If I left too soon after him, he’d get suspicious. If I stayed too long, I’d see his name pop up on my phone, the messages starting off calm but quickly shifting to anger. If I ignored them, the calls would start. And if I ignored those?
I never did.
So I took what I could.
Those precious moments were all I needed.
Sitting there, I could feel the tension slip from my shoulders, the weight of him, of the house, of the constant fear lifting just enough for me to breathe.
I’d close my eyes and pretend I had choices. That I was free. That I didn’t have to go back.
But I always did.
The walk home was the worst part. Every step felt heavier, slower. By the time I reached the door, my heart was already racing. I knew what was coming. The questions. The accusations. The way he’d tilt his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he had to figure out.
“Where were you?”
“Who did you see?”
“Why didn’t you answer?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
I never told him about the bench.
Because it was mine.
The only thing he hadn’t taken from me yet.
And even though I always had to go back, I held onto those moments. Kept them tucked away in my mind, like a secret I could retreat into when things got too much.
Because even if I had to sit on that bench for just five minutes, it reminded me of something important.
One day, I wouldn’t have to leave it behind.
