Bruised But Breathing

"Sometimes, it's the people we love the most—ones we would've walked barefoot across fire for—who end up teaching us the harshest lessons. Not because they meant to, not because they were monsters, but because they were broken in ways we couldn't fix. They show us that love, the real kind, should never feel like fear. It should never echo in the slap of a hand or the silence after a scream. They teach us, through their failure to love us right, what we must never again accept. And even as we cry for them, even as we still long for the warmth of the memory, we begin to understand that true love does not bruise. It does not beg for forgiveness over the same wounds. It does not silence you or make you question your worth. Sometimes, the people we love the most are the ones who force us to choose ourselves finally. And that's the most painful, most powerful kind of love lesson there is."

Siphosethu Zulu

He had blacked out.

One moment he was yelling, begging me to talk, eyes glassy and wild... and the next, he slumped on the patio chair, head falling back like a broken puppet. Katlego. The man I had loved, the man I had cried over for seven days straight. The same man who had held my wrist so tightly I winced. The same man who had slapped me out of his own frustration. The same man now unconscious just a few feet away from me.

I just stood there for a while. Watching him. His chest rising and falling, uneven but steady. His mouth slightly parted, the scent of alcohol heavy in the air between us.

I didn't feel sorry for him.

Not then.

Not after everything.

My tears were dry now. The pain had mutated. It was no longer a stab—it was a constant ache. A gnawing, hollow space where my heart used to be. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to feel something other than broken.

And then, quietly, I tiptoed away from him.

I didn't want to make a sound.

I didn't want to be seen.

I walked down the hallway, past the blaring music, past the girls still laughing and dancing like nothing had just shattered out on the patio. I reached the front door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the cold night air. The silence outside felt heavier than the noise inside.

It was 2:33 a.m.

I pulled out my phone and requested a cab. My hands were shaking again—not from fear, not from cold—but from everything. Everything that had happened. Everything that hadn't.

I stood near the gate, arms crossed over my chest, eyes glued to the road.

That's when I heard someone whistle.

"Yoh, Yoh, Yoh... what's a fine thing like you doing out here all alone?" a deep voice slithered through the night.

I turned my head slowly and saw him—Thabiso.

One of Kat's friends. The one always loud during matches, the one who made it a point to remind everyone of his "goal of the season" every chance he got.

He walked towards me like he owned the ground, sagging jeans, shirt half open, and that stupid smirk on his face.

"What's wrong, sweetheart? Kat passed out already?" he grinned.

I didn't respond.

"Or wait... did he finally show you his true colours, huh? That guy's a joke. Should've known better. You deserve someone who can actually handle you. Someone like me."

I looked away, disgust crawling over my skin like ants.

He stepped closer.

"I've got money. I'm a player. National team. If I wanted, I'd take you home, treat you right. You don't need a guy like Kat. You need a man. I can give you more than he ever could."

"Thabiso," I said coldly, "I'm not interested."

"Tjo! Who said I was asking?" he laughed, then his tone darkened. "You think you're better than me? You think just because you're pretty and can cry on command that you're untouchable? Don't flatter yourself. You ain't the only virgin on campus."

I clenched my jaw.

But I refused to cry.

Not in front of him.

Not after everything tonight had already taken from me.

He kept ranting, throwing insults laced with arrogance and bruised ego. Every word bounced off me like I was wearing invisible armour made from pain. I didn't even flinch.

And then... I saw the headlights.

My cab.

Saved.

Without a word, I walked past him, ignoring the last thing he mumbled. Something cruel. Something that would've made the old me cry. But not tonight.

Tonight, I had nothing left to give.

I opened the door, got in, and shut it with the finality of a goodbye.

The driver asked, "You okay, sisi?"

I nodded once, swallowed the knot in my throat, and whispered, "Just drive, please."

As we pulled away, I looked back once at the house. I could still see Kat on the patio, slumped in that chair, unaware of the storm that had just passed through his life.

And for the first time in a week...

I didn't cry.

I just... sat in silence.

Wishing I had never opened that damn door .

*********************************************

The room was silent when I walked in—too silent. The kind of silence that presses down on your chest like grief. I didn't bother switching on the lights. I dropped my handbag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and went straight to the bathroom.

The light above the mirror flickered to life.

And there I was.

Still me.
But not really.

I leaned closer, eyes red from the tears I had tried to hold back. Lips swollen from biting down all the words I couldn't say. And on my left cheek... the faint outline of a hand.

His hand.

It wasn't fully swollen, not red like before, but it was there—taunting me. A reminder.

Kat had slapped me.

I brought my fingers up slowly, brushing the tender skin. It stung. But not as much as what I felt inside.
Not as much as the shame. The betrayal. The disappointment.
Not as much as the ache that came from loving someone who hurt you.

He didn't just slap my cheek—he slapped the part of me that believed in him.

I sank to the cold tiles, back against the wall, knees to my chest. I stayed there for a long time. Maybe an hour. Maybe two.

And in that darkness, a thought crept in...

Should I report him?

I blinked. The question echoed in my mind like thunder.
He hit me. It was wrong. No excuses. No alcohol. No anger. No "I didn't mean to."
He hit me.

But then, the other part of me—the one still wearing his hoodie buried deep in my laundry basket, the one that still memorised the smell of his neck, the one that still believed in the old Kat—that part whispered back...

"Don't ruin his life. Don't put him in the news. Don't destroy him."

And I knew I wouldn't.

I promised myself, right there, curled up on the floor beneath the mirror:
I will not report him.
I will not tell anyone.
Not because he doesn't deserve consequences, but because I'm not ready to destroy someone I still... love.

Yes. Love.

God, I still love him.

But I can't go back.

Because no matter how good he once was, no matter how sweet, how soft-spoken, how thoughtful—no one gets to slap me.
Not even Katlego.

Not even my father had ever slapped me. Not my brothers. No man ever had the right.
Who the hell did he think he was?

I stood up slowly, brushed the dust off my thighs, and turned off the bathroom light. I crawled into bed without changing, without eating, without even locking the door.

Sleep didn't come easy.

It came in waves, dragging with it the memories that had once been beautiful.

*******************

I still remember our first real date. He took me to a quiet spot by the dam, just the two of us, away from the noise. The wind was soft, and he looked nervous but excited.

He gave me his soccer jersey—Number 10. Moeketsi.
"So you remember I'm always yours," he'd said with that crooked smile.
Then came the match tickets, two of them. "Front row," he said.
That moment, I felt like I belonged in his world—loud, proud, and unhidden.

Then he looked at me and said, "I think I'm falling for you."

I said it back.

And he kissed me—gently, like he'd waited forever.

It was my first kiss.
And it felt like everything.