The Death of Me (Was Her )

‎ ‎CHAPTER ONE – HUNGER ‎ ‎ ‎If someone had told me six months ago that love could feel like drowning in daylight, I would’ve laughed. I would’ve said, “No, love is warmth.” ‎ ‎But I was wrong. ‎ ‎Love, for me, started as hunger. A quiet ache. Not for food. Not for s*x. Not even for affection. But for matter. For meaning. For something to prove I was real. I needed someone to look at me, really look and say, “You. You’re the one I’ve been waiting for.” And when she did, even just once, I thought I had been reborn. ‎ ‎Her name? I won’t say it. Not yet. Saying it still shakes something inside me. Like a ghost I haven’t fully exorcised. ‎ ‎I met her in the most unassuming way. A mutual friend’s party. Small gathering. Laughter flowing like cheap wine. A stupid game of “Truth or Dare” that ended with her kissing my cheek and laughing like she didn’t just spark a wildfire in my chest. ‎ ‎I remember everything about that night. ‎ ‎The way she sipped her drink like it was part of her identity. The effortless arrogance in her posture. The sly way her eyes would land on you like a Dare, like if you held her gaze too long, she’d expose every lie you’ve ever told yourself. ‎ ‎And I couldn’t look away. ‎ ‎She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room. Not the loudest. Not even the most charismatic. But she had something… dangerous. Some kind of invisible magnetism. A silent invitation into her chaos. And I was starving for something, anything, that would make me feel alive again. ‎ ‎Later that night, she texted me. A simple: ‎“You’re interesting.” ‎ ‎That was all it took. ‎ ‎A one-line message cracked open everything I had neatly buried under months of numbing routine and quiet desperation. I was hooked before I even replied. I didn’t know it yet, but I had already been chosen. Not for who I was, but for what I could offer: attention, obedience, devotion. ‎ ‎I was the perfect candidate. Lonely. Overthinking. Generous to a fault. Addicted to approval. The type who would overextend just to hear “thank you.” ‎ ‎From that moment, I went on autopilot. ‎ ‎Make her laugh. Make her feel safe. Make her want to stay. Be charming, be deep, be available, be strong. Be anything she needed. I studied her like a language I was desperate to become fluent in. I abandoned my habits. I bent my routines. Skipped classes. Avoided calls. Lost sleep. All because she had a smile that made me feel seen, and a silence that made me work for it. ‎ ‎And the worst part? ‎ ‎I loved it. ‎ ‎I loved being needed. Or at least pretending I was. She had this broken-girl Aura, like someone had shattered her long ago, and I thought, maybe I could be the glue. Maybe I could fix her. Maybe I could be the one who stayed. ‎ ‎But broken people don’t always want to be healed. ‎ ‎Sometimes, they want to watch you break too, just to feel less alone. ‎ ‎She told me her stories. Painful ones. Family betrayals. Exes who cheated. Abandonment. Childhood trauma. And I believed every word. I held her while she cried. I stroked her hair and said all the right things. I made promises I didn’t fully understand just to keep her safe. To keep her close. ‎ ‎But looking back now, I realize… those stories weren’t shared with trust. They were shared with purpose. They were weapons. Every secret she handed me was a future bullet. ‎ ‎And I gave her the g*n willingly. ‎ ‎It started subtly. Criticism disguised as flirtation. ‎“You’re cute when you’re insecure.” ‎“You think too much, that’s why you ruin moments.” ‎“I like you more when you’re quiet.” ‎ ‎I laughed along with her at first. Thought it was just her being playful. Thought I could handle it. But those words stuck. They became the script I started living by. Don’t talk too much. Don’t overthink. Don’t ruin the moment. Stay quiet. Stay pleasant. Stay useful. ‎ ‎Before I knew it, I was walking on eggshells so much I forgot how solid ground felt. ‎ ‎She became my compass, and I let her. Her moods, her needs, her silences, they dictated my days. If she was happy, I felt worthy. If she was cold, I spiraled. If she was distant, I thought I did something wrong. I would rewrite entire conversations in my head trying to figure out what I said that made her withdraw. ‎ ‎And the truth? ‎Sometimes I hadn’t said anything. ‎Sometimes she just pulled away to see if I’d chase. ‎ ‎And I did. ‎Every. Single. Time. ‎ ‎She became my everything. My reason. My rhythm. The thing I waited for. The text I prayed for. The call I stayed up for. I made her the sun and I became the moth. Always burning. Always orbiting. Always hoping. ‎ ‎I told myself I was being romantic. That this was what love looked like. Selflessness. Sacrifice. Persistence. ‎ ‎But I was wrong. ‎ ‎It wasn’t romance. It was erasure. ‎I was slowly deleting myself to keep her from leaving. ‎ ‎And she knew it. ‎ ‎I remember one night clearly. One of those nights where everything felt slightly off. She had been cold all evening. Distant. Passive-aggressive. I asked if I had done something. She sighed and rolled her eyes. ‎ ‎“Why do you always make things about you?” ‎ ‎That broke me in a way I didn’t even register at the time. I had made everything about her for weeks. Her stress. Her job. Her mood swings. Her silence. Her needs. But the moment I brought up my own feelings, I was too much. ‎ ‎So I apologized. ‎For having emotions. ‎For asking. ‎For existing. ‎ ‎That became the pattern. She’d hurt me. I’d apologize. She’d ghost me. I’d chase. She’d twist things. I’d doubt myself. And every now and then, just when I felt like I might finally pull away — she’d throw me a lifeline. ‎ ‎A compliment. A kiss. A night together. ‎Just enough to keep me. ‎ ‎It worked every time. ‎ ‎Because I wasn’t addicted to her. ‎I was addicted to the version of myself I thought I was when I was with her. ‎ ‎Someone worthy. Someone chosen. Someone that mattered. ‎ ‎Even as I write this, I feel my throat tighten. Because I can still remember the way her voice softened when she wanted something. The way she leaned into me at parties like we were in sync. The way she made me feel like the main character, for just a moment, before reminding me I was disposable. ‎ ‎There was a week, early on, where I thought she loved me. She made me playlists. She kissed me in the rain. She cooked for me. She held my face in her hands and said I made her feel safe. And I believed it. Every word. Every gesture. ‎ ‎But it wasn’t love. It was performance. A calculated illusion to secure my loyalty. ‎ ‎Because after that week? ‎ ‎Everything changed. ‎ ‎