The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound in the dark kitchen. Three weeks now. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has. That feeling, the one that has you scrolling through articles like this in the dead of night, the one that whispers, *“Am I making this all up?”*—that is the wound. It’s the psychic vertigo of having the ground of your own reality dissolve beneath your feet, not by your own doing, but by the deliberate, insidious campaign of another. It’s the conversation you know you had, the one they swear never happened. It’s the promise they made, looking you dead in the eye, that is now dismissed as a figment of your “overly sensitive” imagination. It’s the slow, creeping erosion of your sanity, a drip-drip-drip of doubt that leaves you questioning the very fabric of your perceptions. You start to apologize for things you didn’t do. You start to believe you are “too much,” “too emotional,” “too needy.” Your own mind, once a sanctuary, becomes a courtroom where you are perpetually on trial, and the evidence is always, somehow, your own fault. This is not a misunderstanding. This is not a communication breakdown. This is a soul-level