"He never hit me, But he Broke me anyway"

I used to believe that love meant patience — that staying, even when it hurt, was proof of loyalty. That if I loved hard enough, I could fix him.

I know now that wasn't love. It was survival. It was fear disguised as hope.

We met in the most ordinary way: mutual friends, a night out, too many drinks, and one of those late-night conversations that feel profound when you're young and starved for attention. He was funny, charming, and a little bit broken — the kind of man who wears his pain like a badge of depth. I mistook that for emotional intelligence. I mistook a lot of things.

In the beginning, he made me feel like I was the only person in the room. His eyes would lock onto mine, and when he laughed at my jokes, it felt like sunlight. He texted good morning, sent songs that reminded him of me, and said he’d never met anyone like me.

Looking back, I think I fell for how he looked at me — not how he treated me.

It didn’t happen overnight. That’s the hardest part to explain to people who’ve never been in it. It’s not like he hit me or screamed at me. He was subtle — calculated in the way only someone deeply insecure can be.

First, he teased me about the way I talked. Then he stopped laughing at my jokes. He started making fun of my dreams — “Do you really think you’re going to make a career out of writing?” he once said, half-laughing, after I showed him a piece I was proud of. I laughed too, but that night I cried in the bathroom. Quietly, so he wouldn’t hear.

Then came the silences. The passive-aggressive responses. The “you’re too sensitive” lines when I tried to express that something hurt. He made me feel like I was too much and not enough at the same time.

Still, I stayed. I thought if I could just love him harder, he’d return to the version of himself I met in the beginning — the man who texted good morning and made me feel like art.

But that version of him never really existed. I had written him into a story that made sense to me, edited out the red flags, and romanticized the rest. I made him the main character in a fairytale that was really a horror story dressed in sweet words.

I started losing pieces of myself. I stopped writing. I stopped seeing friends who pointed out the ways he was dimming my light. I wore more makeup because he liked it that way. I stopped voicing opinions when I realized mine always ended in a fight.

The day I left wasn’t dramatic. There were no final arguments or big revelations. It was a quiet Tuesday. I had made pasta for dinner, and he hadn’t said a single kind thing all day. I looked at him across the table, and it hit me: I was exhausted. Not just from him, but from who I was becoming around him.

I didn’t cry when I packed my things. I think I had run out of tears by then. I just felt this strange, calm emptiness — like the moment after a storm when everything is broken, but at least the noise is gone.

The weeks that followed were harder than I want to admit. There were moments I doubted myself. I missed the illusion more than the man. But with every day that passed, I felt a little more like myself. I started writing again. I reconnected with friends. I looked in the mirror and saw someone I recognized — someone strong.

People often think toxic relationships are filled with violence or cheating or screaming matches. But sometimes, they’re made of small cuts. Words that chip away at your worth. Looks that make you feel foolish. Silence that punishes you for having needs.

If you’re reading this and it feels familiar, I want you to know something: you are not dramatic, or crazy, or asking for too much. Love should never make you shrink. Real love makes room for all of you — your voice, your dreams, your flaws, your light.

I stayed far too long for the version of him I made up in my head. But leaving gave me back the most important relationship I’ll ever have — the one with myself.