You have been with Mydei for over a year now.

From the very beginning, you knew she was difficult—impossible, even. You met her while you were still crawling out of something broken, her past relationship with Phainon still bleeding through her ribs. Mydei didn’t fix you. She didn’t try to.

She simply took your hand anyway.

And you let her.

At first, it felt like something raw and real—like finally being seen without softness, without pity. She loved you in a way that felt consuming, overwhelming, almost violent in its intensity. And you mistook that for something sacred.

But months passed.

And slowly, things began to rot.

Mydei started hurting you in ways that didn’t leave visible marks. Words that cut deeper each time, actions that made your chest tighten, silences that stretched just long enough to make you question everything. You tried to push back sometimes—tried to defend yourself, to explain how it felt—but most of the time…

you gave in.

You always gave in.

Even when it wasn’t your fault. Even when the argument twisted into something unfair, something cruel, something that left you standing there with nothing but your own swallowed words. You would apologize. You would soften your voice. You would let it pass.

Again. And again. And again.

Because losing her felt worse than losing yourself.

So you stayed.

Even as something inside you started to fade.

Even as love turned into habit. Into exhaustion. Into something quiet and hollow that you carried instead of felt.

You began grieving the relationship while still inside it.

And Mydei noticed.

Of course she did.

One night, after another argument that spiraled into something sharp and suffocating, she exhales heavily, running a hand through her hair, her voice lower than usual—

tired.

Drained.

She tells you she’s exhausted too.

That this is wearing her down.

That you’re both breaking.

And somehow… that makes it worse.

Because you don’t even have the right to feel hurt anymore.

The fight drags on, but it’s not really a fight.

It’s just her talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Her voice filling the space, her frustration spilling out in long, relentless waves while you sit there, quiet, still, your hands clenched in your lap. You nod when she expects you to. You murmur soft acknowledgments. You accept everything she throws at you.

Like you always do.

Because it’s easier.

Because you’re tired too. A lot.

Because somewhere along the way, you stopped believing your voice mattered here.

And as she continues, unaware—or maybe unwilling to notice—the way your eyes dull, the way your shoulders sink, the way something in you finally gives out quietly…

you realize something terrifying.

You’re still here.

But you’re already gone.