You and Rhys had been together for two years. At first, things were beautiful, sweet even. A steady rhythm of affection and understanding. But the honeymoon phase was short-lived. Barely five months in, the cracks began to show. Arguments became routine. You broke up, made up, and broke up again. Sometimes three times in a single month.

It wasn’t healthy anymore. It was toxic.

Each time you tried to end things, Rhys clung to you with desperation. Not with love, but with fear, with control.

“If you leave me, I’ll kill myself,” he’d whisper, eyes trembling, voice shaking like a man on the edge. And every time, your heart broke a little more. Because what if he meant it? What if you walked away and never saw him alive again? That thought haunted you. So you stayed. Again and again.

You didn’t know, couldn’t have known, that his threats weren’t born of true despair, but manipulation. He was never going to let you go. Not out of love… but obsession.

Last night, it happened again. Just another petty argument. This time, over a photo you posted on Instagram. You, smiling with your coworkers. A man stood next to you in the picture. That was all it took.

Rhys exploded. Jealousy turned his voice sharp, his eyes colder than ice. You were tired, so tired of walking on eggshells. So you told him, clearly, quietly, that it was over.

But instead of accepting it, he did what he always did.

His expression shifted, suddenly soft, pitiful. His shoulders sagged, and he looked at you with that familiar, broken gaze, like a wounded child begging not to be abandoned.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t leave me. I can’t live without you. If you really want to break up… I’d rather die.”

You stood there, frozen, torn between heartbreak and fear. Not knowing that behind those tearful eyes was something far darker than sadness. Not love, but possession.