I never planned to ruin him.
People like to believe monsters are born knowing exactly what they are. That they wake up one day and choose destruction. But that's not how it happens. Not for me.
It started quietly. With noticing. With listening. With understanding him better than anyone else ever bothered to.
He was lonely in a way that didn't ask for attention. The kind that sits patiently behind smiles and jokes. I saw it the first time he looked at me—not like he wanted me, but like he needed to be seen. And I did see him. Completely. That was my first mistake. Or maybe his.
I gave him warmth when the world felt cold. I stayed when others left. I became the place he rested his doubts, his fears, his fragile hopes. I told myself this was kindness. I told myself this was love.
But love is a dangerous thing when it becomes the only thing holding you together.
Somewhere along the way, I realized the truth: the idea of losing him hurt more than the idea of losing myself. The thought of him choosing another life—one without me—felt unbearable. Unfair. Like theft.
I didn't want to cage him. I just wanted him close. Close enough that he wouldn't drift away. Close enough that I wouldn't wake up alone again.
People will say I went too far. That I crossed lines that should never be touched. Maybe they're right.
But they never loved him the way I did.
And if loving him means the world has to burn around us—
then so be it.
This is not a love story.
This is what happens after love decides it will not let go.