I met her on social media, and we talked for months—every day, hour after hour. It felt like we knew each other completely, like we’d been connected forever. So when we finally decided to meet, it felt natural, like the next step in something special. On that very first day we met in person, we made a big choice: we’d move in together. Everything felt perfect, like we were building a life we’d both dreamed of.

For the first five months, it was good. Then things started to shift. Little changes at first—her mood would swing, she’d get angry over small things. Then the aggression started. Words turned to shouting, then pushing and shoving. It quickly became violence. She cut me off from everyone I loved. I wasn’t allowed to see my family or friends, wasn’t allowed to speak to them. I was completely isolated, alone in our home with her.

The first time she hit me, I froze. I was terrified. I wanted to call the police, but she threatened me—told me if I did, she’d do something truly terrible, something I wouldn’t recover from. I believed her. I was scared, confused, and I didn’t know where to turn. I thought maybe it would get better, maybe it was just a bad patch.

It didn’t get better. It got worse. One day, she came at me with a knife. That was it—I knew I had to call for help, or I wouldn’t survive. The police came, arrested her, and I thought it was over. I thought I was safe. But later that same day, she came back to the house. She got inside, and she attacked me. She stabbed me six times. I lay there, bleeding, thinking I was going to die.

She was arrested again, and this time, she was kept in custody, waiting for her day in court. In January, she was sentenced to 4 years in prison.

I survived. I’m still here. But the scars—physical and emotional—will be with me forever. I learned too late that love shouldn’t hurt, that control isn’t care, and that no one has the right to make you feel trapped or afraid.