“What happened?” she worriedly stated, looking at my arm.
“Nothing, it’s just some cuts and bruises.” I reply nonchalantly.
“He’s doing it again. I warned you, you have to leave that jerk! Every time I see you, the bruises get worse. How can you be so calm about this?”
I know she cares, but this time it was my fault. “I’ve been living with him for a year. I should know to be home by the time he’s back from work. Really, I should know better.”
“You were shopping with me and we got caught up in traffic. Does he really think you could do something about it?” she asks, her voice dripping sarcasm.
No, I thought to myself. I cannot control all the drivers in the city, but I should have left the house earlier. Should have had a prepared, delicious dinner on the table; he is the one that provides for us, not that he ever lets me forget it. I let one tear release and rub my eyes before the tide begins.
Her eyes turn hard, I know she loves me and this all is destroying her. “I can’t do this anymore, you are leaving with me or you can stay here and let yourself die.” I’ve heard this before in a different version, from my therapist that I secretly have sessions with, the ones my boyfriend doesn’t know about. I plan them all carefully so they fall on his long days at work. It’s funny though, most men would be upset by working until the late hours, but he comes home with a rare smile. I ignore the lip stick stain on his neck and the smell of alcohol; I want to keep that smile on his face a little longer. Until I do something stupid that takes away the mere traces of it.
I’ve thought about leaving him, but who else would ever take me? I am fat, ugly and good for nothing; those are just some of the few insults he’s mentioned lately. No job, where would I go, and how would I support myself?

I could go with her, but who would love me the way I need them to?