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墨書 Inktalez
I thought that leaving him would allow me to breathe the air of freedom. Yet, for the first few days, I found myself waking up every morning at three o'clock. A sliver of light seeped through the gap in the curtains, and I always imagined it was the shadow of his car headlights shining in.
I flipped my phone over and over, repeatedly checking to ensure I had truly turned off the location services, deleted our chats, and changed my SIM card. Still, I couldn't help but click on that empty social media account, hoping to see if he had left any trace behind. There was nothing.
He said nothing, yet he seemed to know everything. I felt like a person just coming off drugs, my mind filled with his shadow. Even in the supermarket, when I saw the cheese he liked, my hand would instinctively reach out for it. That illusion of "he is still by my side" had once been my reason for living. But now, I had to rid myself of it—cleanly, completely, without leaving even a trace of that illusion behind.
I began to establish a regular routine, exercising and learning how to shop, eat, and live on my own. The first time I went downstairs late at night to buy bread, my hands trembled. But I told myself, what is this little fear? I would no longer live the life others had set for me; I needed to learn to make choices for myself.
Then one day, while eating at a street stall with friends, the wind was strong and we were all laughing happily. I thought I could finally start anew. But when I returned home, I received an anonymous message: "Don't eat too much fried food; your stomach isn't good."
I froze in place, nearly dropping my phone. In that moment, it felt colder than if he had appeared right in front of me. Like a ghost, he silently penetrated my life, yanking me back from laughter into harsh reality.
Like a bandage that gets tighter and tighter.
I sat on the sofa, staring at that text message, my fingertips trembling slightly.
I didn’t reply or delete it; I just quietly focused on those few words until the screen went dark.
"Don't eat too much fried food; your stomach isn't good."
He knew where I was, what I had eaten, and what I was doing.
I used to think that was love; now it felt like an invasion.
In that moment, I felt a clear sense of hatred for the first time.
He was no longer the shadow I cherished but a virus invading my life system.
I didn’t call the police; he was my nominal husband.
I didn’t panic either; I first did everything I could do.
I canceled my old bank card and reset all privacy settings;
cleared records on social media, stopped sharing my location, and turned off all comments;
had friends receive packages for me and deleted all traces of myself.
I thought it would be difficult, but surprisingly, it was quite simple.
What I truly feared was losing control; once I started to take charge, the fear began to dissipate.
Later, I realized that those things I once thought were "impossible" were not because I couldn't do them, but because he wouldn't let me.
He made me dependent, made me fear loneliness, made me believe that "without him, I am nothing."
But now, I believe in nothing at all.
He was still watching, still "caring," but I didn't look back even once.
I didn't hide from him; I just stopped responding.
He sent a photo of my silhouette from the day before as I passed by a street corner.
I glanced at it and deleted it.
He changed his number and tried to add me again.
I chose to refuse, remaining unresponsive.
He appeared near my company.
In front of my boss, I forced a smile and said, "This is my ex; it seems he hasn't moved on."
From that day on, for the first time, he looked unfamiliar to me.
It wasn't anger, nor was it pleading; it was a genuine sense of losing control.
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