Tia hadn’t heard from Malik in over a week.


No letters. No texts. No fly-by threats whispered in alleyways.


But the quiet made her stomach coil tighter than chaos ever did.


She knew men like him didn’t vanish.


They waited.


And then they struck when you forgot what fear smelled like.


It happened at the community center.


Late. Rain. Nova had just dropped her off for a solo workshop prep.


Tia was restocking journals when she heard the door creak open behind her.


She turned.


And froze.


Malik stood there—wet from the storm, eyes sunken, voice low.


“Been watching you pretend you don’t need me,” he said.


She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.


“You need to leave,” she said, steady.


He stepped forward.


“You think them little poems protect you? That DJ? That crew of yours? They don’t know you like I do.”


She reached slowly toward the back cabinet where she kept her pepper spray.


“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t act like you some victim now. You knew what we were.”


“I did,” she said. “I do.”


“And you know how this ends.”


She let her hand fall away from the spray.


Then locked eyes with him.


“You’re right,” she said. “I do.”


The police lights hit the center five minutes later.


Nova burst through the doors, out of breath, followed by Devin.


Malik was on the floor.


Face down.


Hands zip-tied.


Tia stood near the window, shaking but upright.


Devin looked at her.


“You okay?”


She didn’t answer right away.


Then nodded.


“I didn’t touch him,” she said. “Didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t run.”


Nova stepped beside her, eyes wide with relief.


“What happened?”


“I looked him in the face,” Tia whispered, “and I didn’t fold.”


Back home that night, she opened a fresh notebook.


Wrote only one line:


“The day I didn’t die was the day I started living.”


Then closed it.


Because the poem didn’t need more.


Not yet.


Some victories are silent.


And that night?


Silence was her crown.