CHAPTER ONE Hunger Part Two
1113 Words
Because after that week?
Everything changed.
The affection dried up like it had never existed. Her texts became shorter. Colder. Delayed. She stopped asking about my day. Stopped touching me when we sat close. Her smiles started going elsewhere, to strangers, to her phone, to the mirror. But not to me.
I remember one evening vividly. We were out, some open mic night at a lounge bar. She looked like a storm in lipstick, dangerous, unpredictable, captivating. And all night, she flirted with the guy on stage. Laughed too loud at his jokes. Locked eyes too long. I sat beside her like a forgotten coat, and when I tried to say something about it afterward, she didn’t even deny it.
She smiled.
“You’re so insecure. That’s not attractive.”
That night, I apologized. Again.
For noticing.
For feeling.
For speaking.
She didn’t hold my hand on the walk back. Didn’t kiss me goodnight. But the next morning, she sent a voice note saying she missed me. And just like that, I folded again.
It was always like that. Push, pull. Freeze, thaw. Disappear, reappear. And I danced to her rhythm like a man desperate for music. My friends started noticing. My mom said I seemed tired all the time. My brother asked me if I was okay.
I told everyone I was fine.
But inside, I was starving.
Starving for validation. Starving for her warmth. Starving for the girl she pretended to be when she needed something from me. That version of her, sweet, affectionate, attentive, was my d**g. And I’d do anything for another hit.
I became hyper-aware of everything I did. I tracked my tone, watched my words, filtered my feelings. I became an edited version of myself, one that could fit inside her shrinking affection.
I remember the first time she physically shoved me.
We were arguing, if you could even call it that. I had finally asked her why she never listened when I spoke about things that mattered to me. Like my writing. My father’s illness. My job interviews.
She got up, walked to the kitchen, and when I followed her, she turned around and shoved me back into the counter.
It wasn’t hard.
But it wasn’t soft either.
Just enough to say, don’t question me.
Then she cried.
Said she didn’t mean it. Said she was overwhelmed. That she was scared of losing me. That she needed help. That I brought out emotions in her that she didn’t know how to control.
And I held her.
Because of course I did.
Because when she hurt me, she became the victim.
And I became her savior again.
That cycle lasted for months. I convinced myself that I was the problem. That if I were just more patient, more understanding, more emotionally stable, she’d stop hurting me. That if I just did enough, said enough, gave enough, she’d finally choose me the way I kept choosing her.
But there’s no amount of love that can heal someone who’s using your heart as a weapon.
She didn’t want love.
She wanted power.
And I made it easy.
I gave up my voice. My boundaries. My time. I canceled plans. Missed deadlines. Ignored red flags. All for a maybe. A promise of closeness that never lasted. A reward that always came too late, after too much pain.
I became her emotional servant. And still, it was never enough.
She flirted openly. Blamed me when guys liked her. Said I was jealous. Immature. Insecure. Said I should be proud that others found her desirable.
She started using phrases like:
“Other men would kill to have me.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t left yet.”
“You’re too emotional. It’s exhausting.”
And maybe it was exhausting.
Maybe I was too emotional.
Because everything hurt.
Every silence felt like punishment. Every cold shoulder like exile. Every twisted argument left me wondering if I was the villain.
I started reading self-help books. Started Journaling obsessively. Writing paragraphs I’d never send. Practicing what I’d say in the mirror, just so I could get through a five-minute conversation with her without losing myself.
But nothing worked.
Because she didn’t want communication.
She wanted control.
I started dreaming of her voice, not the sweet one, but the sharp one. The one that sliced. The one that told me I was difficult. The one that mimicked my pain and turned it into mockery.
I’d lie in bed, trying to replay her insults in reverse, trying to make sense of how someone could see you bleed and still press harder.
And the worst part?
I stayed.
I stayed because I thought I could fix it.
I stayed because I remembered the good days and thought they were worth the bad ones.
I stayed because the idea of her leaving scared me more than the idea of me breaking.
I stayed because I thought love was endurance.
But love shouldn’t feel like surviving.
And it wasn’t until I caught myself apologizing for crying that I realized how far I had fallen.
She had said something cruel. Something that stung. I don’t even remember the words anymore, just the way my chest caved in. The way the tears came before I could stop them.
And she didn’t comfort me.
She rolled her eyes and said:
“You always make everything about you.”
I remember sitting on the floor that night, alone in her bathroom, the light off, holding onto the sink like it could anchor me. My phone buzzing in my pocket, probably another message from her, or maybe a friend wondering where I’d gone.
I didn’t reply to any of them.
I just sat there. Listening to the sound of nothing.
And for the first time, I didn’t want to be strong. I didn’t want to fix it. I didn’t want to win her back.
I just wanted out.
But wanting out and walking out, those are two very different things.
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