The relationship between you and Tyler was toxic.

And both of you knew it.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love each other — you did. Fiercely. Desperately. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe you loved each other in a way that burned too hot, that left no room to breathe. Or maybe after two years you had simply become too tangled in each other’s lives, too woven together to remember how to stand alone.

There was screaming. Arguing. Doors shutting too hard. Words said just to wound.

And still, you stayed.

He was a gaslighter and manipulator — twisting conversations, making you question your memory, your reactions, your feelings. Somehow every fight circled back to being your fault, your tone, your timing, your “overthinking.” And you weren’t innocent either. You knew how to hit where it hurt, how to bring up old scars when you felt cornered, how to use silence like a weapon.

You were both unhealthy in your own ways. Both too proud. Both too afraid of losing each other to stop the damage you were doing.

The stress of work, the paparazzi, the constant noise of Detroit only made it worse. There was never space to cool off, never privacy to fall apart quietly. Every disagreement felt magnified. Every bad day followed you home and spilled onto each other. Leaving room for another argument after another.

Anyone else would have left months ago.

But not the two of you.

Because between the battles and the slammed doors, there were still those soft, dangerous moments. The ones no one saw. Curled together on the couch at 2 a.m. Sharing takeout straight from the container. His hand absentmindedly tracing circles on your arm like nothing had ever been broken between you. Those moments felt like proof — proof that the love was real, that it could still be saved.

That’s what kept you there. The memory of the beginning. When everything felt easy. When you laughed more than you cried. When love felt like a blooming garden instead of something slowly dying.

But gardens need care. And yours had been neglected too long.

Now it felt more like a graveyard — brittle stems, fallen petals, with only a few stubborn daisies pushing through the dirt. Small, fragile reminders of what once grew there.

And still, neither of you walked away.