Dark Forgiveness

Mya sat in the softly lit room, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The space was neat and orderly; bookshelves lined the walls, each shelf arranged with self-help books and calming trinkets. Dr. Patel gave her a gentle smile, waiting for her to speak.

"He texted me,” Mya finally said, her voice softer than usual.

Dr. Patel raised her brows. “Marcus?”

Mya nodded, not meeting her therapist’s eyes. “He said he wanted to apologize... for everything.”

Dr. Patel leaned forward, her hands resting on her notepad. “How did that make you feel?”

Mya pressed her lips together. “Angry. Confused. Part of me wants to hear him out, but... I don’t know if I can. Or if I should.”

“It’s natural to feel conflicted,” Dr. Patel reassured her. “Forgiveness isn’t about excusing his behavior. It’s about freeing yourself from the hold it has on you.”

Mya looked up, her eyes uncertain. “He wants to meet at a coffee shop. Just to talk.”

Dr. Patel considered this. “Do you feel safe meeting him?”

“I think so. I guess I just... want to see if he’s changed. Maybe hearing him out would help me move on.”

Dr. Patel smiled. “If that’s what you feel is right, remember you’re in control. Your safety and well-being come first.”

Mya leaned back against the cushioned chair, her mind drifting back to the years she’d spent with Marcus. The shouting, the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves, the endless apologies that never led to change. The memories tightened around her chest harder than his grip on her wrist during their last fight two years ago, but Dr. Patel’s words echoed in her mind: Forgiveness isn’t about him. It’s about you. And as Mya left the office and headed to the coffee shop, she couldn’t shake the feeling that some wounds weren’t meant to be healed.

Mya sat alone at a small, round table in the coffee shop, her fingers trembling as she wrapped them around the steaming cup. She took a slow, deliberate sip, trying to steady herself. Then, her hand jerked, and the coffee spilled, splattering onto the table and dripping down her wrist. "Damn it," she muttered, jumping up from her seat and grabbing a handful of napkins.

"Oh, let me help you," a young café worker said, rushing over with a rag. As she mopped up the mess, Mya glanced up and saw Marcus. He stood just inside the door, his tall frame backlit by the afternoon sun, casting a long shadow across the floor. He was devastatingly handsome — chiseled jaw, neatly trimmed beard, eyes dark and warm like melted chocolate. The kind of face that made people think he couldn’t possibly have a bad bone in his body. But Mya knew better.

Marcus’s lips curved into a soft, almost apologetic smile as he stepped forward. "Mya," he said, voice smooth as silk.

Mya swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Hey."

They sat down, a chasm of awkward silence stretching between them. Marcus clasped his hands together on the table, leaning forward. "Thank you for meeting me. I... I know it’s been a while."

"Yeah," Mya said, forcing a tight smile. "It has."

"I just — I want to say I’m sorry. For everything," Marcus said, his eyes locking onto hers with a sincerity that felt practiced. "I was a mess back then. Selfish. Angry. And I know I hurt you."

Mya nodded slowly, feeling her pulse thrumming in her ears. His words should have been enough. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t.

"I don’t expect you to forgive me," Marcus said, reaching for her hand but stopping himself short. "But I wanted you to know that I’m different now. I’ve been working on myself, going to therapy. I’m trying to be better. I’m actually engaged now. Her name is Sienna. She’s… she’s really great. And I don’t want to mess things up again."

"That’s... good," Mya said, her gaze dropping to the table. "I hope it’s true."

Before Marcus could respond, the door chimed, and a woman entered — all sun-kissed skin and wavy hair cascading over her shoulders. The second she stepped inside, her phone rang, and she answered it with a warm, almost melodic voice. "Hello? Yes, this is Sienna Triselle."

The woman’s eyes lit up when she saw Marcus. "You know what, let me call you back.” She hung up the phone and walked over with a warm, welcoming smile. “Hey, babe," she said, leaning down to kiss his cheek. Then she turned to Mya, extending a hand. "You must be Mya. I’m Sienna."

Mya reached out to shake her hand, and that’s when she saw it — the faint purple bruise on Sienna’s wrist, peeking out beneath a delicate gold bracelet. Mya’s breath hitched. It was a familiar shape, the kind that lingered long after the grip was released. Marcus and Sienna both noticed Mya’s reaction. Sienna’s smile faltered, eyes darting nervously to Marcus. Marcus’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes narrowing.

"We should go," Marcus said quickly, standing up and wrapping his arm around Sienna’s waist. "We don’t want to be late for that thing."

Sienna opened her mouth to protest, but Marcus was already leading her toward the door, his hand pressing firmly against the small of her back. Mya watched them go, the room feeling suddenly colder, the memory of Marcus’s grip tightening around her wrist replaying in her mind like a haunting refrain.

Back home, Mya couldn’t shake the image of the bruise. She tried to focus on work, but her thoughts kept circling back. Finally, she grabbed her phone and pulled up Instagram, typing Sienna Triselle into the search bar. The name was unusual enough that her profile was the first to appear.

The account was public. Mya clicked, and Sienna’s life unfolded in a series of perfectly curated squares. The first few rows were filled with vibrant photos — Sienna surrounded by friends, at brunches, laughing on the beach, dancing under strobe lights. But then, about nine months ago, the images started to change. Mya scrolled, her eyes narrowing. The group shots faded away, replaced by selfies of Sienna and Marcus. In the first couple of pictures, Sienna’s smile was broad, her eyes bright and full of life. Marcus stood beside her, arm slung casually around her shoulders, grinning. But the more Mya scrolled, the more those smiles became closed-lipped, guarded. Sienna’s eyes dimmed, the sparkle now clouded by something darker.

The comments beneath the photos were telling.

Miss you, girl! Haven’t seen you in forever!

You okay? Tried calling. Call me back.

Where have you been? We’re all worried about you.

Mya’s jaw clenched. The timeline was painfully familiar. It was exactly how her own friends had reached out to her when she’d been trapped under Marcus’s control. Without thinking, she created a new account — blank profile, generic name. Once it was set up, she typed out a quick, vague message to Sienna:

Hey, I know this might sound strange, but if you ever need to talk, I’m here.

The message sat unread for hours. Mya refreshed the page obsessively. When the notification finally popped up, her heart raced.

Do I know you?

Mya hesitated, then replied: No, but I know Marcus. If something feels wrong, trust your gut.

The message showed as read, but Sienna didn’t respond. Mya refreshed the page, scrolling through Sienna’s newer photos again. Then, she saw it. A selfie of Sienna in a bedroom — a cozy, sunlit room with soft gray walls and a small vase on the shelf behind her. Mya’s heart thudded against her ribs. The vase. It was the same vase Marcus had once used to conceal a camera, the one he’d claimed was a gift from his grandmother. Mya had only discovered the hidden lens after he’d accused her of cheating, showing her video proof of her doing nothing but sitting on the couch, reading a book.

Mya sent another message: Check that vase on your bookshelf. Trust me. There’s a camera in it. He’s watching you when he’s not there.

Thirty minutes later, a reply came in. One word:

Ohmygod.

Mya’s breath caught in her throat as another message appeared:

He said it was a gift. What do I do?

Mya typed back quickly:

Meet me. We need to talk.

Later that night Sienna sat hunched over on the park bench, her arms wrapped tightly around herself despite the cool night air. The park was eerily quiet, the streetlights casting long, wavering shadows that danced across the pavement. Mya approached slowly, her heart pounding as she took in Sienna’s pale face and shaking hands.

“Hey,” Mya said softly, sitting down beside her.

Sienna looked up, eyes wide and filled with shock. “Mya?”

Mya nodded, her expression grim. “I’m the one who sent you the messages. I know what he’s capable of. I know what he’s done to you because he did the same to me.”

Sienna’s lips parted, her breath fogging in the cool night air. “He... he did?”

“For three years,” Mya said, the words heavy as stones. “At first, he was perfect. Attentive, charming, everything I thought I wanted. Then things started to change.”

Sienna’s shoulders slumped. "He said he’s trying to be better...”

Mya leaned forward, her voice low, the darkness pressing in around them. “People like Marcus don’t change.”

Before Sienna could respond, a shadow loomed over them.

“There you are,” Marcus said, his smile too wide, his eyes too dark. The light from a nearby streetlamp illuminated the hard lines of his face, casting sharp shadows that made him look more sinister than ever.

Mya’s stomach dropped. Sienna flinched as Marcus stepped forward, his gaze shifting between them.

“I was worried about you,” he said, his tone deceptively calm. “You didn’t tell me you were meeting someone.”

Sienna swallowed, her eyes darting to Mya. “Marcus, I—”

“You didn’t tell me you were meeting her,” Marcus said, his voice growing harder. “I thought you said you wanted to be done with the past. Wasn't that the whole reason I met with her? To leave all that in the past."

“How did you know we were here?” Mya demanded, standing.

Marcus sighed. “Sienna and I don’t keep secrets. Isn’t that right, babe?” He gave a smile. “I have her password.”

Sienna’s face crumpled. “Marcus, please—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, grabbing her arm and yanking her closer towards him. “We’re leaving.”

“No!” Mya said, stepping forward. “You’re not taking her.”

Marcus’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing dangerously in the dim light. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Sienna tried to pull away, but Marcus’s grip only tightened. The sight of his hand around Sienna’s wrist — just like he’d done to Mya — sent a wave of fury crashing over her. Without thinking, Mya lunged forward, shoving him hard.

Marcus staggered back, but he didn’t let go of Sienna. Instead, he yanked her against him, his other hand flying out and striking Mya across the face.

Pain shot through her cheek, but Mya didn’t back down. She grabbed a fistful of Sienna’s sleeve, pulling her away from Marcus. Sienna stumbled, but managed to get free.

Marcus’s eyes gleamed in the dark, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “You think you can take her from me? You think you’re some kind of hero?”

He lunged at Mya, grabbing her by the shoulders and shoving her to the ground. The asphalt was cold and rough beneath her, and the night seemed to close in, the shadows deepening.

Mya’s hands scrabbled against the ground, her vision blurring as Marcus loomed over her.

“You always had to make everything so damn difficult,” he sneered, pressing his knee into her chest.

Mya’s hand closed around something solid — a rock. She gripped it tightly, waiting for her moment.

“Sienna,” she gasped, “run!”

But Sienna didn’t run. Instead, she grabbed a heavy branch from the ground and swung it at Marcus’s back. He roared in pain, twisting around, and that was all the opening Mya needed.

She shoved Marcus off of her, rolling to her feet, the rock heavy in her hand. Marcus stumbled backward, clutching his head. Blood dripped from a gash above his eye, dark and slick in the moonlight.

He fell to the ground, chest heaving, and looked up at Mya. “Mya,” he said, his voice trembling, his eyes shining with fear. “Please. I’m sorry. You have to forgive me. I’m trying to be better.”

Mya’s chest heaved. The memory of his grip around her wrist flashed through her mind — the nights she lay awake, terrified of his footsteps in the hallway, the hours she spent crying in the shower, trying to scrub away the feeling of his hands on her skin.

Forgiveness. It dangled in front of her like a poisoned apple.

Mya stepped forward, her shadow falling over Marcus, her face hidden in the dark. “You want forgiveness?”

Marcus nodded, tears streaming down his face.

Mya gripped the rock tighter, her heart pounding, her vision narrowing to just him — the man who had stolen her life, the man who would never stop until he was stopped.

“This is for all that you’ve done… to the both of us.”

And she brought the rock down.