The Ghost in the House For nine months, I bled and I pleaded. I thought if I just loved him hard enough, he would remember who we used to be. Instead, the more I cried, the colder he became. I was reaching out for a husband and finding only violence—in his words, in his hands, and in the silence of his indifference. I didn't want a divorce. I didn't want to leave the house we built or the life we promised each other. But I finally realized I was pouring my soul into a man who could watch me break and not even flinch. I stopped begging. I stopped trying to save what he had already set on fire. I still loved him—a love that broke my bones—but I couldn't stay and die slowly in the wreckage. Because sometimes, love isn't enough to save a person who doesn't want to be found.