[From the Diaries]

We stayed back a few extra days after the family left.
It was supposed to be just us. A softer ending to the trip. A reset.

Instead, it became something I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

Things between us have been rocky for a while. If I’m honest, maybe they’ve always been. We had already fought the day before my family left, and after that nothing felt steady. I’m not blameless. I know my attitude can be sharp. I know I react fast when I feel disrespected. I know I struggle to stay calm once I feel dismissed.

That part is mine.

But that night scared me.

It started over something so stupid it almost feels embarrassing to write.

We were playing Monopoly Deal. A game we’ve played a hundred times. Lately he’s been winning a lot, which is fine. It’s a game. But just as we started, I had no money and he had plenty. I asked for rent.

He said, “Just say no.”

I looked at him. “But you have money.”

“That’s what I want to do.”

It was small. Petty. Childish even. But something about the way he said it irritated me more than it should have. It felt unnecessary. Like he was enjoying denying me.

I threw the cards down. Game over.

He started justifying it. Saying he had to play a card. It didn’t make sense. It felt like backtracking just to prove he wasn’t wrong. I got more upset. I started tearing the cards. I was visibly angry now.

And then he said, “I should get this on video.”

I saw red.

I threw the cards at him, grabbed my phone, and started walking out. As I closed the door, I heard him shouting, “Why did you hit me? Why did you hit me?” over and over.

In my head I was thinking: because you tried to record me in my rage. For what? To use later? To show someone? To prove I’m unstable?

The moment I stepped outside, I heard chaos behind me. Loud chaos. Things being thrown. We were practically the only ones staying in that house. Every sound echoed. It wasn’t even our house. It was my brother’s in-laws’ family home.

I had face to lose.

I went down to the pool and sat on a lounge chair, hyperventilating. Angry. Embarrassed. Trying to calm down. I kept asking myself, what has this place become for us?

Then I heard more noise from upstairs.

Still him.

Still loud.

Still unapologetic.

What if someone hears? What if someone comes to check? The shame of that possibility felt suffocating.

Then the door slammed. Minutes later he was walking toward me, still furious. I could see it in his eyes. That deep, hot red anger.

“Why did you hit me?” he shouted again.

He didn’t care who heard.

“Because you tried to video me,” I said.

I don’t think he even heard me.

He kicked my flip-flops with his foot. Kicked the lounge chair I was sitting on. It wasn’t enough to hurt me. It was just enough to intimidate.

It was disrespectful in a way that made my stomach drop.

I stayed quiet.

When he walked away, I went back upstairs.

The room was worse than I imagined. Things everywhere. Not just messy. Thrown. I wanted to take pictures, but I was scared he would see me doing it.

So I started cleaning.

I needed control. I needed something stable. I needed the outside to be calm because the inside of me wasn’t.

As I cleaned, he started throwing more things onto the bed. Packing. Unpacking. Moving with intensity. We were supposed to leave the next afternoon, but everything felt unstable. Like he might walk out at any second.

I said nothing. I kept cleaning.

When the room was spotless, I could breathe again. Just a little.

He came out of the bathroom, shirtless, and tried to hold me.

I resisted with everything in me. I bit him. Pinched him. Grabbed his hair. I screamed that I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want him touching me. The way he had behaved downstairs didn’t feel like the man I knew.

It felt like a display. Something meant to overpower. Something meant to assert.

I broke free and sat at the desk. I bought an Apple gift card. Completely random. Dissociative almost. Like my brain needed something ordinary to focus on.

The desk was next to the bathroom. I could hear him crying in there.

I didn’t go.

I played music. June Gloom. It was mid-June. It felt fitting.

He came out and closed my laptop. I opened it. He put it away again. I grabbed it. He grabbed it back. I had to beg for my own laptop.

He started slapping himself, saying, “Hit me now.”

His eyes were still red.

I kept my tone flat. Calm. Almost numb. I just kept asking for my laptop until he let go. I grabbed it and came downstairs.

It was only early evening.

I remember thinking: I still have hours to get through.

I wasn’t scared of him exactly. I was scared of the volatility. Of what might happen next. Of the unpredictability.

The next morning was no better. Slamming doors again. I hate that sound. It feels intentional. Like it’s designed to make you flinch.

At the airport, he kept asking if we were really breaking up over a game. Said it was the stupidest breakup ever. Said I was stupid. Said he didn’t care if we broke up.

Then, in the same breath, he asked what he did wrong.

He said even after I hit him he was still here.

He told me not to put my ego above us.

He said he was sorry if he had done anything wrong.

Sorry if.

On the flight, we were seated next to each other. He tried to take selfies by putting his phone in my face. I pushed it away. It fell. He tried again. I pushed it again. People probably saw. I didn’t care.

He kept taking pictures of me. I looked the other way.

Right after takeoff, he moved seats.

And all I could think was this: he does not see himself in this. He only sees the moments I lose my composure. The torn cards. The biting. The hair pulling. My reaction.

Not what builds up to it.

Not the door slamming.

Not the intimidation.

Not the way I felt like I had to survive the night instead of sleep through it.

Maybe in his version I am the villain.

The girl who broke up over a game.

I am fine with that.

Because it was never about Monopoly.

It was about fear.

And I cannot build a life with someone if I have to feel this terrified just to stay.