Before him, I was someone else. Someone who walked with confidence, who laughed without thinking, who looked in the mirror and liked what he saw. My world was full of colour—bold shirts, fresh trainers, the golden warmth of the sun on my skin.
I had mates. I had dreams. I had a life.
And then I had him.
He didn’t start with insults. No, at first, he was perfect. The way he looked at me made me feel like I was the only person in the world. He told me I was special. That no one else understood him the way I did. That he’d never felt like this before.
I believed him.
Then, slowly, he started to change.
He started to criticise what I was eating, telling me I was getting fat. It was always said with a smirk, like a joke I was supposed to laugh at. You don’t need that second helping, do you? Getting a bit soft round the edges, babe. No offence, but maybe try cutting down on the carbs?
At first, I laughed it off. I told myself he was just teasing. But then he started watching me eat. If I finished my plate, he raised an eyebrow. If I reached for something sweet, he sighed.
And then came the other words. The ones I wasn’t expecting.
Ugly.
He kept saying it every day. Not just once. Every time he looked at me, he said it.
I heard it so much I believed it.
I couldn’t go out. I couldn’t even look at myself.
I stopped wearing the clothes I liked. Stopped styling my hair. Stopped taking care of myself at all. Because what was the point? I stayed inside, moving like a ghost through the flat, shrinking into the corners, making myself smaller and smaller.
And still, the mirror mocked me.
It sat there, unblinking, reflecting back the words he had carved into me.
So I painted it.
I painted the bathroom mirror with black paint. I just couldn’t face looking at myself anymore.
The brushstrokes were thick and uneven, streaking across the glass like battle scars. The paint dripped in slow, dark rivers, swallowing my reflection until there was nothing left.
I exhaled.
For the first time in months, I felt relief.
Then I heard the door slam.
His footsteps were heavy, his voice sharp. “What the hell have you done?”
I turned to face him, bracing for the explosion. He stepped forward, jaw clenched, eyes burning with anger. But something shifted inside me.
The mirror was gone. The proof was gone.
And without it, I wasn’t sure I believed him anymore.
Maybe I wasn’t ugly.
Maybe he was just cruel.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. My mind kept returning to the mirror, to the black paint, to the feeling in my chest when I’d covered up my own reflection.
For the first time, I let myself wonder what life would be like without him.
I didn’t leave that night. Not the next one, either.
But I started to think about it. Plan it.
And one day, I would.
