She clung to him like he was oxygen. Always touching. Always kissing. Always needing.It wasn’t just sex — though that was constant. It was her hands on his chest the second he walked in, her lips at his throat while he worked, her crawling into his lap in the middle of the night just to feel skin.

It looked like love. Felt like passion. But it wasn’t either — not really.

He used to think she was just affectionate. Insatiable. At first, he liked it — the fire, the hunger. But now, it felt off. Like the way her smile faltered if he pulled away. The way she apologized after, eyes glassy. The way she whispered, “I’m sorry I’m like this,” before falling asleep.

She didn’t think anything was wrong. To her, this was love — constant, obsessive, consuming. If she didn’t want him every second, maybe he’d leave. Maybe he’d see what she saw in the mirror: a body she hated. A mind she couldn’t quiet.

She thought she was being devoted. He realized she was drowning.

They sat on the couch. She shifted, pressing her mouth to his neck, hand sliding under his shirt.

“Babe…” he caught her wrist gently.

She blinked up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said softly. “I just want to hold you. Not… all that. Not right now.”

She stilled. Then curled into his side, trying to seem okay.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just… feel better when we’re close.”

“You don’t have to apologize for needing me.”

“But I do,” she murmured. “When we’re not like that, I start overthinking. Like you’ll get tired of me. Like you’ll leave.”

He tilted her chin up.

“I’m not going anywhere. I love you even when you’re quiet. When you’re messy. When you’re just breathing.”

She searched his face. “You say that… but I don’t know how to believe it.”