The price of feeling

The city lights bleed through the blinds, painting stripes across the ceiling. Another night. Another quiet stretch after the storm, or maybe just the suffocating calm before the next one. My breath feels shallow, like I’m hoarding it. That tightness in my chest? It’s always there now, a dull ache beneath the surface of... everything. He called me beautiful tonight. Said no one understands him like I do. Pulled me close, smelled like expensive cologne and something else, something I didn’t ask about. Those moments, right? They hit like a wave. Wash over you, make you forget the choppy water, the undertow. The way he looked at me, just for a second, like I was the only person in the world. Like he meant it. That’s the part I cling to, the flicker of warmth in the perpetual chill. But then... it’s always something, isn't it? My phone buzzed. It was Chloe, just a quick check-in text. Harmless. But his eyes narrowed. "Who's that?" Not curious. Accusatory. Like I was plotting treason in his living room. I showed him. "Chloe. She was just asking if I was okay." He scoffed. "Okay? Why wouldn't you be okay? Do you tell her things?" The air shifts. Gets thin. Suddenly, I’m defensive, explaining why yes, my friend checks on me sometimes, like it's a crime. He leans back, that charming smile returning a little, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Just wondering, babe. Don't like secrets between us." Secrets? My heart pounds. What secrets? There are no secrets. Except maybe the secret of how much this feels wrong. He does this. Builds you up, then chips away at the edges until you're not sure what's solid anymore. He tells me I worry too much. That I'm too sensitive. I cried last week because he forgot my birthday. Not forgot, exactly. Just… didn't make a big deal. Said birthdays are silly. But then he saw my face, the tears, and he flipped. Not angry, not outright. Just... disappointed. "Jesus, Abby. Don't make a drama out of it. It's just a day." Just a day? It felt like me. Like us. But he made me feel childish, demanding. Like my feelings were an inconvenience. "Don't ruin the night," he said, voice soft but laced with steel. And I stopped crying. Because apparently, my sadness was ruining his night. Last night, he went out with the guys. Said he'd be back by midnight. One AM, two AM, three. Nothing. My texts went unanswered. The anxiety coiled in my stomach, a familiar snake. I didn't sleep. When he finally stumbled in around five, smelling of alcohol and definitely not alone, he acted like nothing happened. "Rough night," he mumbled, collapsing onto the bed. I hesitantly asked where he'd been. He snapped, suddenly wide awake. "Out! With the guys! What, you tracking me now?" His voice was loud, sharp. I flinched. "No, I just... I was worried." "Worried? Don't be ridiculous. I'm a grown man. Stop smothering me." He turned away, ending the conversation. And I lay there, the chill clinging to me, wondering if I was the problem. Was I smothering him? Was my worry unreasonable? He has a way of making you question your own reality. Gaslighting, Chloe calls it. I just feel… confused. And guilty. Thank god for Chloe. She sees it, I think. Or she sees something. We had coffee the other day. Sat at our usual corner table, the city humming around us. I tried to keep it light. Talked about work, about the weird couple we saw arguing outside. But she just looked at me, really looked. "Abby. Are you okay?" Her voice was gentle but firm. I shrugged, stirring my lukewarm latte. "Yeah, fine. Why wouldn't I be?" The rehearsed answer. Smooth, practiced. She didn't push. Not hard. Just said, "You seem tired, Abs. More than just work-tired." I mumbled something about Daniel being stressed lately, his job, you know. Making excuses for his mood, his edginess. For the way he snapped at me that morning because I used hismug. "He's still doing that?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "Still snapping over stupid things? Still vanishing all night?" I fiddled with the sugar packet. "It's not that bad, Chloe. He's just stressed." Lies. They tasted like ash. "Abby," she said, reaching across the table to take my hand. Her hand was warm, solid. A lifeline in the swirling fog. "That's not stress, that's control. And it's not normal. The way he talks to you... the way he makes you feel..." I pulled my hand back gently. "He has his moments. Everyone does." I heard myself saying the words, and they sounded hollow even to me. I couldn't admit the extent of it. Not to her. It would make it too real. Make it mean I had to do something. And the thought of doing something, of leaving, of facing him, felt like standing on the edge of a cliff looking into an abyss. My stomach churned. She stayed quiet for a moment, her eyes filled with concern. "Just... promise me you'll be careful, okay? And promise me, if you ever need anything at all, day or night, you'll call me. You can stay at my place. No questions asked. Just call." Her sincerity was a heavy weight. It felt like a burden. Like acknowledging I might need that escape was admitting defeat. Admitting this beautiful, intense, sometimes terrifying relationship was... what it felt like in the quiet moments alone. A cage. She doesn't understand the good parts, I tell myself. The laughter we share sometimes, the way he can make me feel desirable, the promises of a future he paints when he's in a good mood. The moments where he is the charming, loving man he pretends to be. They're real, aren't they? They have to be. Otherwise, what am I holding onto? But then the memory of his cold eyes flashes, or the sting of his words, or the sickening feeling of finding a text message on his phone that wasn't from me, definitely not from a guy friend. (I didn't confront him. I just deleted it and pretended I never saw it. It felt safer.) And the tightness in my chest constricts. The city lights outside seem less like a vibrant backdrop and more like distant, indifferent eyes. I pull the blanket closer, trying to warm the chill that starts deep inside the bone. Trapped. The word echoes in the quiet room. Trapped between the person I desperately want him to be, the person he shows the world, and the cruel, unpredictable reality of the man I live with. Chloe’s offer replays in my mind. A safe haven. The thought is a tiny spark, almost immediately smothered by the fear. The fear of him. The fear of being alone. The fear that he’s right, that I am too sensitive, too much, and no one else would ever… My thoughts trail off. The silence of the apartment presses in. He's asleep now, oblivious. I should try to sleep too. But the questions circle, relentless. How did I get here? And how, how on earth, do I ever get out? The tight knot in my chest remains, a constant reminder that this isn't a dream I can wake from easily. This is my life. For now.