The rain hammered against my window, each drop a relentless reminder of Jenna. It had been three months since I’d ended things, three months of looking over my shoulder, three months of feeling like a hunted animal. It was exhausting.

I remember the Jenna I fell in love with. God, she was sunshine personified. Sweet, gentle, with a smile that could melt glaciers. We met in a bookstore, both reaching for the same worn copy of "Wuthering Heights." A shared love for classic literature blossomed into something beautiful, something real.

I remember the way her hand fit perfectly in mine, the soft murmur of her laugh when I told a bad joke, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about her dreams. We spent hours talking, sharing secrets, building a world just for us. That Jenna was a dream.

But something shifted. It started subtly. A casual mention of “checking in” to make sure I was home safe, even when I was just at a friend's place. Then came the constant texts, the relentless need to know my every move. At first, I dismissed it as affection, a quirk I could live with.

It escalated quickly.

The sweetness began to curdle into something possessive. She’d show up unannounced at my university library, claiming she was "just in the area." She started questioning my female friends, her tone laced with thinly veiled suspicion. I caught her scrolling through my phone while I was in the shower, her face a mask of furious concentration.

The final straw was the party. I was chatting with a girl from my history class about a project when Jenna materialized, her eyes blazing. She grabbed my arm, hissed something about “knowing what I was up to,” and dragged me outside. The scene she made was mortifying.

I tried to talk to her, to reason with her, but it was like talking to a stranger. The gentle, loving Jenna was gone, replaced by this possessive, volatile version. I broke up with her that night. I had to.