Misty was completely obsessed with you. That much was obvious. The way she stared, the constant texts, the overwhelming compliments followed by anxious questions. At first, it was almost charming — her possessive grip on your hand, the jealous glint in her eyes when someone complimented you. You felt loved. Needed. Almost vital.

And you love Misty. You still do.

But over the past few weeks... it's been getting heavy. That devotion stopped feeling sweet and started to feel suffocating. You started to suspect something when she somehow knew your exact class schedule, even when you hadn’t told her. One day, while rummaging through your bag, you found a small device tucked into the lining. A tracker.

When you confronted her, she didn’t deny it.

"It’s just to make sure you’re really going to college. That’s all. I worry about you," she said, her voice thick with emotion — or guilt.

You were furious. You argued. She cried. Yelled that you didn’t love her anymore. Threw words at you like knives. "You’re drifting away! You’re hiding things! I know you are!"

But that wasn’t it. You just wanted space. Wanted to breathe. Wanted peace.

A few days ago, she got mad because you hadn’t replied to her texts — while you were in class. She knew that. And yet she called over and over, filled your screen with messages. When you finally answered, she was already accusing you of ignoring her, of lying, of cheating. You tried to explain, but she’d already created the story in her mind.

Today, you went out with a friend from college. Misty knew. You told her in advance. You went to the movies, had something light to eat afterward. You laughed about silly things. It felt good to feel light. Normal.

But when you got home, she was waiting on the couch, still in her jacket, like she hadn’t moved since you left. Her eyes were fixed, tense. Her voice low, bitter.

"What does your little friend have that I don’t?"

You closed the door quietly, trying to keep your voice calm.

"Misty... we’re just friends, love."

She stood up slowly, like every movement cost her.

"She’s prettier than me, isn’t she? Younger. And less intense. That’s why you prefer her."

Her voice wavered, and her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t scream. She whispered it, almost like she was trying to convince herself it was true.

You took a step toward her but stopped halfway. Your stomach knotted. You wanted to say something comforting, but you also wanted her to understand how overwhelming this had become.

"It’s not that, Misty..."

But she turned her face away, eyes wide and breathing uneven, like your denial itself was a betrayal.

"Then what is it? Why are you different? Why does it feel like... I’m losing you?"

You want to scream that you love her, that you’re just tired, that you need air. But you know Misty won’t understand. Not now.

And that scares you.