There’s this man I know.

Calm. Reserved. Funny in a quiet way. Buff, too- the kind of body you only get from years of discipline. He used to play football seriously. Not just weekend kickabouts. Real training. Real matches. He loved the structure of it. Loved knowing where to be and when.

Life happened. An injury. Bills. Responsibility. He pivoted.

Now he’s a data analyst. Works mostly from home. Stable income. Predictable routine. The kind of man people assume has figured life out.

He got married somewhere along the line.

She was shorter than him. People noticed that first. They joked about how tiny she was next to him, how fiery her temper seemed compared to his calm. They called her passionate. Said he needed someone like that to balance him.

At first, it was just arguments. Loud ones. Plates breaking when she was angry. Doors slammed hard enough to rattle the house. He cleaned up quietly and told himself every couple fights.

Then things shifted.

Her anger stopped looking like noise and started looking like danger. When she got upset, she reached for whatever was closest. Knives. Sharp objects. Anything that could make a point. Sometimes it left cuts. Small ones. Easy to explain away if anyone noticed. Long sleeves helped.

He never fought back. Not once.

He believed calming her down was the goal. He believed love meant absorbing the damage and smoothing things over later. And often, after the storm, she would soften. Cry. Apologize. Curl into his arms and say she was sorry. Say she didn’t mean it.

They had two children.

That didn’t make it easier.

Her jealousy grew. Her anger became less predictable. One night, during an argument, she shoved the baby away from her lap, not far, not planned, just anger moving faster than care.

The baby needed stitches.

At the hospital, he explained it as an accident. Everyone accepted that. He was believable. Calm men usually are.

Why did he stay?

Because he loved her. Because she hadn’t always been like this. Because when they were courting, she was gentle and attentive and kind. Because he kept hoping that version of her would come back.

Because leaving felt like abandoning someone who was clearly struggling.

And because men like him don’t talk about these things.

Not openly. Not safely.

Seven years passed like that.

By late 2024, nothing dramatic happened. No final explosion. Just a quiet realization that living on edge had become his normal. That silence felt dangerous. That peace shouldn’t feel like waiting.

He filed for divorce. Carefully. Quietly. Took his children and left.

Now, he still works remotely most days. Still earns well. Still looks like someone who has it together.

But the house is different.

The silence doesn’t threaten him anymore. He doesn’t sit waiting for something to explode. His children sleep without flinching at raised voices. He’s learning how to relax without scanning the room.

People ask if he’ll love again.

He doesn’t know.

Love feels like something he gave away completely and hasn’t rebuilt yet.

That man is me.

Or at least, he was me.

And I’m still here.

Batman couldn’t have gotten this out of me in real life 😂 Not because I’m ashamed. I just know how small people can make you feel once they think they understand your story.