Chapter Four: Love and Bruises
Age 17 – One Year Later
At first, Dami made her feel seen.
She met him at a local community center during a youth career talk. He was one of the guest speakers — confident, charming, and ten years older. Alora sat in the front row, scribbling notes in her journal while others played with their phones. He noticed that.
After the event, he walked straight up to her.
"You're either a future CEO or a poet with a plan," he said, nodding at her notebook.
Alora flushed. "Maybe both."
He chuckled and offered his hand. "I'm Dami."
She hesitated but shook it. His grip was warm, firm — the kind that made you feel protected.
For the first time in months, she felt like more than a girl from the broken end of town. She felt like a woman — noticed, wanted, and important.
They started seeing each other weeks later. Coffee turned to rides home. Rides home became late-night conversations. And before she could fully understand what was happening, she was in love — or what she thought love looked like.
Dami was generous at first. He brought her food when she didn't have any. He bought her a phone when hers broke. He praised her ambition, called her "his little powerhouse," and told her she was going to make it big one day.
"You're not like other girls," he said once, brushing a curl behind her ear. "You're fire and steel. I just want to protect that."
She believed him.
But love slowly turned.
Dami started showing up unannounced. He questioned every male friend she had. If she wore lipstick, he'd ask, "Who are you trying to impress?" If she didn't respond to his texts quickly, he'd say, "You're too busy for me now, huh?"
Alora didn't recognize the change — not at first. She made excuses. Told herself he was just protective, not possessive.
Until one evening.
They had planned a date. Alora had just come from her part-time job — exhausted but excited. She had even done her hair for the first time in weeks. But when Dami saw her, his expression darkened.
"You're wearing that?"
She looked down at her navy dress. It was secondhand but clean. Neat. She had ironed it twice.
"What's wrong with it?"
"You want people looking at you? That what you're about now?"
His words landed like slaps. Her face flushed, and for a moment, she felt like a child again — small, foolish, unwanted.
The argument grew. Fast. Loud.
"I'm just trying to look nice for you," she snapped.
Dami's jaw clenched. "Don't raise your voice at me."
"I'm not—"
Before she could finish, his hand struck the table beside her, knocking over a glass of water. The sound was thunderous. She flinched.
His eyes narrowed.
"I didn't hit you," he said coldly, as though reading her mind. "Don't act like I did."
Her breath trembled. She backed away. Slowly.
He didn't follow.
But something inside her cracked open.
That night, she didn't go home. She walked the streets for an hour before stopping at a 24-hour diner. Her hands were still shaking when she sat in a booth alone.
She opened her journal.
They don't have to leave bruises on your skin for it to be abuse.
Sometimes it's the way they make you shrink.
The way they make you doubt your own strength.
The way they twist love into a leash,
and call it protection.
She had written poems before — about pain, poverty, and perseverance. But this was different.
This was personal.
It took her another two weeks to leave him. Two weeks of guilt, tears, whispered apologies from him, promises that he'd "never raise his voice again." But the seed of truth had been planted.
When she finally blocked his number, she cried — not from heartbreak, but from relief.
Leaving Dami didn't make her whole again. But it gave her something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Power.
The quiet kind.
The kind that returns in pieces.
Like bone knitting itself back together after a break.
She didn't tell anyone what happened. Not yet. But she promised herself this: she would never again let someone define her value. She would never again dim her light to survive love.
She was broken.
Yes.
But she was starting to rebuild.