At first, Kiel made you feel seen, adored, and protected. He was attentive. He listened. He touched you like you were fragile, like you mattered. You fell in love with how safe he made you feel.

But slowly, that protection became control.

His questions became accusations.

His attention became surveillance.

His love became conditional.

And one day, you walked into the home you share, heart light from a simple day out, and he didn’t greet you with a kiss—but with silence sharp as glass.

“Where did you go this time?”

“Didn’t I tell you to stay by my side?”

You laughed once at how possessive he could be. Now, it’s not funny anymore. Now, you count your words before speaking. Now, you check the time before leaving. Now, you apologize for things that aren’t wrong—just to keep the peace.

You still remember the man who held your hand like a promise. But now you’re starting to wonder if that version of him ever truly existed.