June POV:
Mondays and Wednesdays are the worst.
Not because of what happens on those days... but because of what they an.
They carry the dread of what’s waiting for tomorrow.
When I saw Justin at school, he was back to his cold, distant self. Moody. Untouchable.
But honestly? I didn’t have the energy to care.
I was too lost in my own ss — too busy trying to hold the pieces of myself together with shaky hands and fake smiles.
It’s fucking hard to smile when you’re dying on the inside.
It’s harder when everyone around you wants to be you, envies you, worships the ground you walk on — because if they really knew? If they had any idea?
I’d trade lives with them in a heartbeat.
No one ever looks past the surface.
No one hears the silent screaming behind my laugh.
No one ever does.
Because who would believe ?
Not my mother.
When I begged her for protection, for safety, she called a liar.
Army, my so-called best friend, turned her back on the second she had sothing she could use. And when she told Bart — he looked at like I was filth.
Like I was the girl who seduced her own father.
It’s sick.
It’s wrong.
But that’s what they chose to believe.
And the worst part?
They don’t even talk about it. Not out loud.
Because they’re scared.
They know the kind of man my father is — what he’s capable of.
They know that one whisper against his na could ruin their lives. Their families.
My monster wears a crown.
And no one dares to touch him.
Later, I told Justin goodbye like it was nothing.
He didn’t stop . Didn’t ask anything. Just let go.
So I went to cheer practice — because that’s the only place where I can move.
Where I can lose myself. Push my body until it aches. Until I’m too tired to think.
Too tired to rember.
Too tired for the voices to find .
Because tomorrow’s coming.
And I’m not ready.
I hate Mondays.
Because that’s when the voices in my head begin their sinister countdown.
Whispering.
Reminding.
Mocking.
Tomorrow, they say. Tomorrow, it begins again.
I try not to think about it.
Try to keep my mind busy. Try to outrun the ticking clock inside my skull.
By the ti I get ho, I count it as a small blessing that he’s not there.
The house is quiet — too quiet — and for a mont, I almost feel safe.
Almost.
But my luck only stretches so far.
Because at dinner, he’s there.
Sitting at the head of the table, like he always does.
Like a king in his castle.
And when our eyes et, I feel it.
That sick glint in his gaze. The shine of anticipation.
He knows.
He rembers what tomorrow is.
And he’s excited.
I keep my face neutral. My hands steady. My voice soft when I answer my mother’s aningless questions about school and practice.
But inside, I’m unraveling.
Because he will co to my room tomorrow.
And he will beco the monster all over again.
And no one will stop him.
After dinner, I went back to my room.
Closed the door. Locked it.
Not because it would stop him — it never did — but because the sound of the lock gave the illusion of control.
A small, aningless comfort.
The waiting is always the worst part.
Ti stretches and slows, every second dragging like chains across my skin.
The dread builds until it’s all I can feel. All I can be.
I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
Still. Quiet. Numb.
I don’t cry anymore.
I used to. Long ago. When I still believed that maybe soone would hear — that soone might care.
But eventually, I learned.
Tears don’t bring help.
Tears don’t stop monsters.
They just make you look weak.
And weakness is dangerous in this house.
So I don’t cry.
I just wait.
For the sound of the footsteps.
For the creak of the door.
For the nightmare to stop pretending it’s not real.
The cruel irony about Mondays and Wednesdays?
Those are the nights I sleep best.
No nightmares.
No flashbacks clawing at the inside of my skull.
No haunting echoes from the past dragging under.
Just... silence.
Peaceful, heavy sleep that feels almost like kindness.
As if my mind, for once, decides to give a break.
To let breathe.
To rest before the storm.
Because tomorrow — always tomorrow — is when hell cos calling.
When the monster I live with takes off his mask and becos what he truly is.
Not the charming man with a successful career.
Not the respected husband.
Not the beloved father.
Just the predator behind my locked door.
And so Monday and Wednesday nights, twisted as it sounds, are my sanctuary.
Because nothing happens on those days.
The real nightmare waits for Tuesday and Thursday.
Those are the nights he cos.
So I savor the cruel rcy of this temporary calm.
Not because I’m at peace.
But because I know what’s waiting for tomorrow.
And the silence tonight is just the breath before the scream.
As the morning cos, and the first light seeps through the cracks of my curtains, the countdown begins.
More vicious.
More suffocating.
Because I know what’s coming tonight.
I know the routine too well.
Still, like always, I put on the mask.
Designer shoes.
Flawless clothes.
A handbag that costs more than so people’s rent.
Everything picture-perfect.
Another day to pretend like nothing’s wrong with .
Another day to carry the weight of my secret under layers of silk and mascara.
I walk out the front door with my head high and my heart in pieces.
Then I see it.
Justin’s car parked at the curb.
For a second — just a second — the storm inside quiets.
He ca to pick up.
He didn’t tell he would.
And that simple gesture... it shouldn’t an this much.
But it does.
My heart lifts. Hope teases its way into my chest.
Then the voices co back, hissing reminders in the back of my mind.
Whispers of what the afternoon holds.
Of who I am.
Of what I’ve endured.
Of the monster who waits for behind the façade of my family’s perfect ho.
And suddenly, the hope feels dangerous.
What would Justin say... what would he do... if he ever found out how broken I really am?
If he knew the things I’ve endured, the hands that have touched , the nights I’ve survived?
Would he still look at like that?
Would he still hold like I was sothing precious, instead of sothing defiled?
I take a deep breath, painting a smile onto my face like it’s part of my morning routine.
I open the car door, slipping inside.
"Morning," he says, voice warm, that signature Justin smirk tugging at his lips.
"Morning," I echo, softer than I intended.
Then it hits — the mory.
The last ti I was in this car.
The heat. The way his mouth found every part of .
The way he made forget.
My cheeks flush instantly, the mory blooming behind my eyes like a wildflower in fire.
Justin glances at , eyebrows raised. "You okay?"
I nod too quickly. "Yeah. Just... thinking."
He doesn’t push.
He just reaches for the radio and turns on sothing low, a lazy, soft rhythm that fills the silence without trying to fix it.
And I sit there beside him, feeling the comfort of his presence, the warmth of the leather seat, and the ache in my heart that I’m trying so hard to silence.
Because for a mont, I get to be the girl in Justin’s passenger seat.
Not the girl whose soul is screaming.
Why would the universe begin this god-forsaken day with Justin — his warmth, his smile, the way he looks at like I’m not broken — only to end it with him?
The monster.
Why give a taste of safety just to rip it away hours later?
It’s cruel. A cosmic joke, and I’m the punchline.
Maybe that’s what I am — so sick twist of fate’s humor.
A girl kissed by morning light, and ravaged by shadows co nightfall.
And what hurts the most...
Is that for just a few minutes in that car — with Justin’s hand brushing mine, his scent curling around like a safe place — I almost forgot.
I almost believed I could be sothing other than the haunted girl behind the golden smile.
But the universe doesn’t let girls like forget.
Not for long.
When we arrived at school and Justin parked the car, he didn’t even wait for to unbuckle my seatbelt.
He reached over, his hand curling gently but firmly around the back of my neck, and pulled in.
His mouth crashed into mine — intense, urgent, like he needed the kiss as much as I did. Like it was the only way he knew how to speak without words.
I lted into it. Let myself drown in it.
Good Lord... small rcies.
For a few fleeting seconds, I stopped thinking about the horror waiting for tonight. The dread paused, just long enough for to breathe him in. Just long enough to pretend the world was kind.
I kissed him back with everything I had, trying to anchor myself to the mont. To the heat of his touch. To the way he made feel sothing other than fear.
It was a short, stolen relief.
But it was mine.
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