Trauma

On Friday at precisely 2 pm, Samson Forge, a man with piercing dark eyes, full pink lips, a small, flat nose, and a chiseled jawline, walked into his favorite coffee shop. He moved with an air of confidence, his every step deliberate and graceful. As he sat down and ordered his usual diet, I watched him from the table behind, my eyes fixed on his every gesture. I seethed with anger at how serene he seemed, sipping his coffee with the elegance of a royal dinner. Each sip was a slow, deliberate movement, as if savoring a fine wine. He took his time, seemingly oblivious to the world around him, like he had all the time in the world.

The atmosphere in the coffee shop was cozy, with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the soft hum of conversation filling the air. But for me, it was a torture chamber. Breathing the same air as Samson Forge repulsed me to my core. How could a man so refined, so graceful, be the same devil who had torn my family apart? He had disappeared with my mom's unco