“I understand you’re scared, but until he commits an act of violence or explicitly threatens one, our hands are tied. File a restraining order. That’s a civil matter.”
It felt like screaming underwater. I was doing everything right. I was begging for help. I even found out later that I wasn’t the first—there were allegations that another woman had reported him for the exact same behavior before me. He was a known entity. A walking, breathing red flag. And yet, the system looked at me, a 25-year-old woman terrified for her life, and shrugged.
For a few months in the new west Houston apartment, things were quiet. The knot in my stomach began to loosen, just a fraction. I started looking for remote work. I bought a few new plants. I started leaving my blinds open during the daytime to let the Texas sun in. I thought I had outrun the nightmare.
I was wrong.
