STIGMA

I stiffened in his arms.
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‎He noticed. Awkwardly, he pulled away.
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‎"Sorry," he said, sounding almost shy. "I can wait till you're ready."
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‎My chest tightened. I could barely look at him when I asked, "Can I please have my own separate room?"
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‎I saw the way his mood shifted. His silence said what his mouth didn't. I had hurt him. Still, he nodded.
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‎"Of course you can," he said quietly. "I'll stay in the opposite room."
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‎Guilt rose in my throat like something bitter. I swallowed hard, but it didn't go away.
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‎"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice small. How could I ask for a separate room on our first night together as a couple? What was wrong with me?
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‎"It's okay," he said with a faint smile, and then he turned and walked out.
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‎As soon as the door closed behind him, I felt the silence crawl back in. It wrapped itself around me like smoke, thick and suffocating.
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‎For reasons I didn't fully understand, his touch had pulled something loose in me, memories I'd long buried beneath years of healing and distractions.
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‎I could feel my biological mother's coldness in my bones. Her voice sharp like broken glass. Her love, if it ever existed, was measured in cruelty. I had grown up under the weight of her rejection, bullied, maltreated, unloved. And worse.
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‎There were things I never spoke about. Things that lived in shadows.
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‎Things I tried to forget, but that came rushing back when a hand touched my skin for too long... even if it meant no harm.
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‎It wasn't just the loneliness or the bruises. There were nights I still couldn't explain, and memories that made my stomach twist when I let them surface.
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‎It was a cruel world, and I had learned early not to expect softness.
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‎But then came my stepmom. A woman who should have felt like a stranger, but instead gave me warmth I had never known. She loved me with ease. She made peace feel possible.
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‎She helped me believe that happines