Inherited Scars.

The Inner Child's Voice Chapter 3

The morning light spilled across Ntalami’s room, pale and soft, stretching across the floorboards like gentle fingers. She had not slept much, but for the first time in months, the restlessness didn’t feel like torment. Instead, it felt like clarity.

Her journal lay open on the nightstand. The last sentence she had written the night before still echoed in her chest: I am still running back to my parents’ love;the love I never really had.

She traced the words with her fingertips, feeling their weight. Naming the pattern had cracked something open inside her. It was painful, yes, but it was also liberating. For the first time, she saw that what she had called “love” was really the reenactment of old wounds. And she was tired;tired of bleeding for someone who didn’t know how to stop cutting.

She stood and moved to the mirror. Her reflection looked fragile, but there was something different in her eyes: a quiet strength, a readiness to face herself. She tied her hair back, washed her face, and whispered to her reflection, “Healing won’t come easy. But I choose it.”

Across town, Duke’s apartment was thick with the haze of alcohol and the low hum of music from Chloe’s phone. The martini bottle was nearly empty on the coffee table, the glasses forgotten.

Chloe leaned against him, her lips inches from his ear, her laughter soft and intimate. Duke’s hand slid along her thigh again, but this time she didn’t resist. Her body moved closer, the distance between them dissolving.

She cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs grazing the rough line of his jaw. His eyes met hers, heavy with desire and something else;something unspoken. Without a word, her lips claimed his.

The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, but it quickly deepened, fueled by years of suppressed longing and the haze of liquor. Duke pulled her onto his lap, his hands gripping her waist as though anchoring himself. Chloe’s fingers tangled in his dreadlocks, pulling him closer, her breath quick and shallow.

Heat rose between them, urgent and consuming. Duke pressed her back against the sofa, their bodies colliding in a rhythm that had waited too long to be released. Clothes became obstacles, discarded in careless haste. Chloe gasped his name as he kissed the curve of her neck, and his hands explored her like a man starved.

In that moment, nothing else existed, not Ntalami, not guilt, not memory. Only the fire of two people who had circled each other for years finally colliding.

But beneath the passion, a shadow lingered. For Duke, this wasn’t just desire, it was escape. And for Chloe, it was surrender to something she had always wanted, even if it came clothed in betrayal.

At her apartment, Ntalami brewed tea, the scent of chamomile filling the kitchen. She sat on the balcony with her steaming mug and the crochet bag she had finished. The air was crisp, birds calling from the rooftops.

She thought of Duke, where he was, what he was doing, and a sharp pang pierced her chest. But she didn’t reach for her phone this time. Instead, she breathed through it, reminding herself: This pain is not proof of love. It is the ache of letting go of what is familiar.

Her grandmother’s words returned to her: The past will always try to weave itself into your present, but you must choose which threads you want to keep.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “I choose peace.”

Healing, she realized, was not just about leaving Duke. It was about leaving the little girl inside her who thought she needed chaos to feel alive. It was about reparenting herself, giving herself the safety and love she had craved as a child.

She pulled out her journal again and began to write letters she would never send.

To her father: I forgive you for not knowing how to love me gently. But I will no longer chase men who remind me of your coldness.

To her mother: I forgive you for the tears I witnessed, but I will not reenact your pain in my own love story.

To Duke: I love you, but I love myself more. And for the first time, that is enough to walk away.

Her hand trembled, but when she finished, her body felt lighter.

Duke lay in bed later that afternoon, Chloe curled beside him. Her breathing was steady, her hand resting lightly on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, his mind not at peace despite the pleasure they had shared.

He should have felt triumphant. Chloe was the one he had wanted since high school, the one he had never admitted to anyone. Yet as he lay there, a strange emptiness pressed down on him.

He thought of Ntalami, the way she used to wait for him to come home, her laughter when she showed him her latest crochet project, the softness in her eyes when he confessed the things he never told anyone else. He had broken her, but she had been the only one who had seen his brokenness without flinching.

He closed his eyes and groaned. He wanted both, Chloe’s fire and Ntalami’s devotion. But deep down, he knew that kind of wanting was another form of running. Running from himself, from the little boy still standing at the window watching his mother leave.

He turned to Chloe and kissed her forehead, hiding the storm inside him.

Ntalami spent the evening sorting through her belongings. She gathered the gifts Duke had given her, the bracelets, the notes, the hoodie she had slept in countless nights. Each item carried memories, but she folded them gently into a box. Not with bitterness, but with finality.

As she closed the lid, tears streamed down her cheeks. She let herself cry, not for Duke this time, but for herself; for the years she had spent begging for the kind of love she deserved freely.

When the sobs finally slowed, she whispered into the quiet room, “I let you go, Duke. I let you go so I can return to myself.”

The words were heavy but freeing. She felt the unseen scars inside her, and though they would take time to heal, she no longer wanted to keep reopening them.

Ntalami walked to the balcony. The night sky stretched above her, vast and star-filled. For the first time in years, she felt small in a way that was comforting, not crushing. Small but whole.

And somewhere, deep in her chest, a seed of peace began to grow.