You moved in before the seasons had time to change. I told myself it was love, that maybe love moved fast when it finally felt easy. But it wasn’t easy. It was constant calculation. You said my friends made you uncomfortable, said they didn’t respect our relationship. You never told me not to see them. You just made it harder every time I did. That’s how it started: not with control, but with conditions.

We argued. About nothing. About everything. About who was home more, who paid more, who cared more. You called me dramatic when I got quiet. Called me selfish when I asked for space. You called it passion. I called it confusion. But I didn’t leave. I thought real love was supposed to test you. I thought fire meant chemistry.

You were texting someone late at night. Smiling at your phone while I sat next to you. I said it made me uncomfortable. You talked to him more than you talked to me. Worse, you hid it. If I asked who it was, you didn’t answer honestly. You said I was being insecure. And I believed you. Only because I had already started believing you over myself.

I tried to keep things calm. Tried to make peace in a house where I wasn’t allowed to have needs. I gave in. I gave up. I gave everything I had just to keep things from boiling over, and still, somehow, it was never enough.

By the time the year ended, I was already shrinking. Already managing your moods. Already learning which truths were better left unsaid. And I didn’t call it abuse. Not yet. I called it complicated. I called it difficult. I called it love. But love shouldn’t make you afraid to speak.

And I was already afraid.

The End of Illusion

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