One morning, I walked into the bathroom to shave, and there it was.
Written in bold letters on the mirror:
‘BITCH’
The word stared back at me, waiting. He knew I’d see it, every morning, without fail.
At first, I thought maybe it was a joke. A twisted one, but still—a joke. Maybe he’d had too much to drink the night before, maybe it was just some cruel little prank.
But then it happened again.
And again.
Every day, in places he knew I couldn’t avoid. The mirror. The fridge door. The inside of my wardrobe. Written in soap, in marker, in condensation left behind from the shower.
A reminder. A label. A sentence passed down to me like it was fact.
I tried wiping it away quickly, pretending it didn’t bother me. But it did. Because seeing those words staring back at me, mocking me, was worse than if he’d just said it to my face.
Because when someone speaks, you can argue. You can tell yourself they didn’t mean it. You can convince yourself you misheard.
But when it’s written down, in your own home, on something you have to look at every single day—there’s no escaping it.
And the worst part?
A small, quiet part of me started to believe it.
