After my husband fled in the dead of night, I was no longer allowed to hide my body or hesitate. Forced to walk the streets at night, dressed in outfits that fully exposed my breasts, each passing glance chipped away at my soul. He treated my chest like a toy—grabbing, shaking, and groping it relentlessly, dominating me as if it were his right. I'm terrified. I'm ashamed. I want it all to stop. But every time his hands touch me, every time he drags me around, I feel a slow, creeping heat spreading from deep inside. I hate that part of myself. Yet the part that hates but can't resist is even more frightening.