Eggshells

You never know which version of them is waiting for you.

That is the first thing you learn.

You walk through the front door already scanning the room like someone entering a place that has burned before.

You listen for the sound of their voice.

Too quiet?

Too sharp?

Too cheerful?

You learn to hear danger in tiny things.

A sigh.

A look.

The way a cabinet closes.

The way silence sits differently in the room.

You become a student of moods.

A translator of tension.

You memorize what kind of day they had at work.

What subject will upset them.

What words feel safe.

You stop speaking naturally.

Every sentence must pass inspection first.

Can I say this?

Will this start something?

Will this somehow become my fault?

You begin to live like someone crossing a floor covered in eggshells.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Trying not to step too hard.

Trying not to breathe too loud.

Trying not to become the next reason they explode.

And the strange thing is, after a while, it becomes normal.

You forget what it feels like to relax.

You forget what it feels like to laugh without checking their face first.

You forget what it feels like to be fully yourself without fear that some harmless part of you will suddenly become a problem.

So you make yourself smaller.

Quieter.

Easier.

You swallow opinions.

Hide disappointments.

Bury needs.

You become less and less of a person and more and more of a weather report.

Constantly adjusting to whatever storm might be coming.

And they call this love.

They call it communication.

They call it compromise.

They tell you that you are too sensitive, too dramatic, too difficult.

So you believe them.

You blame yourself for the fear they placed inside you.

You blame yourself for the shrinking.

For the panic.

For the way your own home started to feel like enemy territory.

Until one day, long after it is over, you sit in a quiet room with someone gentle—

someone who does not punish you for existing—

and they ask you a simple question in a normal voice.

And still, your heart races.

Still, your stomach tightens.

Still, you search their face for danger that is not there.

Because living that way changes you.

It teaches your body to expect pain.

To expect anger.

To expect love to always come with fear.

But slowly, over time, you begin to learn that real love does not make you walk on eggshells.

Real love lets you put your feet flat on the ground.