traffic light
Tonight, a simple traffic light brought back a wave of fear I thought I had left behind. I remembered the terrifying feeling of trying to drive my husband to the doctor—how every turn, every lane choice, felt like a test I couldn’t afford to fail. Even something as small as picking the wrong lane would send panic crashing through my chest, because I knew a mistake like that would trigger his anger. He didn’t need to yell right away; the tension, the heavy silence, the way his presence filled the car with pressure—it was enough to make me feel like I couldn’t breathe. That memory still lives in my body, in my heartbeat, in the way I flinch at moments that should be harmless.