You see her again, Nina. She never asks if she can come over, she just appears, like she owns the space around you, like she owns the air you breathe. Maybe some sick and twisted part of her brain really did think she owned you.

“Babe! Don’t ignore me! You’re gonna make me… cry,” she coos, her words dripping with manipulation, daring you to resist. That fake sadness pulls at you anyway, just like always.

She nibbles at your edges until your time belongs to her. You call her toxic; she laughs, smooth and dismissive. You pull away, and she yanks you back, closer than before.

And somehow, every time, you let her. You feed her ego. She feeds your spite. And still, without fail, you circle back.