Chapter 3: Love, and the Damage It Brings
702 Words
Nate wasn’t like the boys in my class. He didn’t talk too much, didn’t joke around during lab. But whenever I was near, his eyes found me, and his presence made everything else seem dimmer.
At first, it was flattering. He remembered things I said in passing. He’d show up at my classroom with an extra bottle of water when I forgot mine. He’d wait for me outside after school, even when it rained.
No one had ever noticed me like that before.
Maybe that’s why I ignored the warning signs.
It started with questions.
“Who was that guy you were talking to?”
“Why didn’t you text me back during lunch?”
“Why are you smiling so much today?”
At first, I thought it was sweet—he cared. But soon, questions became rules.
“Don’t sit next to him again.”
“Don’t laugh like that with other guys.”
“Don’t wear that shirt.”
When I tried to laugh it off, he didn’t smile. He stared, silent. And somehow, I always ended up apologizing.
One afternoon, we were studying together in the library. I was trying to solve a chemistry equation with another boy from class. Nate walked in, looked at me, then walked out.
That night, he didn’t answer my messages. The next day, he barely looked at me.
When I finally asked, he said flatly, “I don’t like you talking to other guys.”
I explained it was just schoolwork. That didn’t matter to him.
“I thought I mattered to you,” he said.
And in a moment of guilt, I said the words he wanted: “You do.”
He smiled again, and just like that, things were okay—until the next time.
His moods changed like the weather. When he was warm, he was the sun. When he was cold, I froze. I stopped talking to boys. I stopped staying after class. I began erasing parts of myself just to keep things calm.
One day, he brought his tablet to school.
“Wanna watch something cool?” he whispered.
What he showed me wasn’t cool. It was disgusting. I looked away immediately, but he laughed.
“You’re too innocent. That’s what I like about you.”
The truth was, I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. I was confused. Embarrassed. I didn’t understand why something that made me so uncomfortable made him smile.
Still, I stayed.
I told myself it was love. That this was normal. That he was just passionate. That maybe, deep down, he needed someone to stay—even if it hurt.
I didn’t tell anyone about the shouting. Or the slammed doors. Or the nights I cried alone in the dark.
I thought I was saving him.
But in truth, I was losing myself.
My grades slipped. I stayed up late overthinking everything. My piano keys gathered dust. I barely practiced anymore. I stopped reading, stopped sketching, stopped writing music.
The few friends I had began drifting away. The girls in class whispered when I walked by. Some rolled their eyes, some giggled behind my back.
“She thinks she’s special because of that music competition.”
“She’s always so quiet, like she’s better than us.”
I wasn't better. I was barely holding it together.
One day, during break, I found a note inside my locker.
“He doesn’t love you. He just controls you.”
There was no name, no signature. Just black ink on white paper.
I stared at it for a long time. My hands trembled.
Who had written it? How did they know?
Maybe because the truth was written all over me: in the tired eyes, the fading smile, the way I flinched when someone raised their voice.
I crumpled the note and threw it away. But its words stayed with me, louder than anything Nate had ever said.
That night, I stood at the window of my bedroom. The city lights blinked like stars too far away to touch.
For the first time, I asked myself a question I’d been too afraid to face:
If I wasn’t in love… then what was I in?
- Writer
