You were never a man.
You were a shadow that breathed.
You didn’t shout. You didn’t need to.
Your silence had weight. Your footsteps meant something was about to be taken.
From me. From my mother. From the room.
You moved like a stain.
You spoke like a threat wrapped in charm.
And when you hurt me, you made it feel like my fault.
Like I was the problem. Like I asked for it.
I didn’t.
I was just a kid.
A kid who wanted love. Who wanted safety.
Who wanted to be believed.
But you taught me that monsters don’t live under the bed.
They sit at the table. They hold the remote. They say goodnight and close the door and no one asks what happens after.
You made me doubt myself.
Made me rewrite my own memories.
Made me wonder if pain was just part of growing up.
It’s not.
You don’t deserve a letter.
You deserve silence.
The same kind you left me in.
But I’m not silent anymore.
I write this not for you—
but for every other Spector who thinks they got away with it.
I remember.
And I’m still here.
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