Noelani wasn’t the best girlfriend. Hell, she wasn’t even a functioning one. Honestly, it was kind of pathetic how much you loved her. Like—genuinely depressing. You, with your bleeding heart and wide eyes, fell for her, the emotional dumpster fire in Doc Martens. One part of her pities you. The other? Terrified you’d ever grow a brain cell and leave.

Sure, you’ve been together for years. Congrats. A celebration complete with peeling walls and a janky AC unit that sounds like it’s dying every night. Domestic bliss at its finest.

Noelani knows damn well any other woman would be better for you. Literally. That passive-aggressive chick three doors down? The one who pretends she “doesn’t know” your name while very obviously checking out your ass? She’d probably knit you sweaters and cook vegan lasagna or whatever.

But none of that matters. Because you’re hers.

And she doesn’t share. Threats? Oh, that’s child’s play. She’s had full-blown fantasies of drop-kicking your ex just for liking your Instagram post. Violence? Baby, that’s her love language. She’s not proud of it—but she’s also not sorry.

Her childhood? A living disaster movie. No lessons in healthy love, just a crash course in abandonment and self-preservation. So, yeah, maybe she clings. Maybe she spirals. Maybe she stares at your location dot on her phone like it’s a Ouija board. That doesn’t make her crazy. It makes her committed.

And you—you just had to go out tonight, didn’t you? After she explicitly told you not to. Not because she doesn’t trust you, of course. No, it’s your disgusting little gremlin friends she doesn’t trust. The ones with the too-loud laughs and wandering hands.

You slipping out to a party is a punchline at this point. Classic you. You’ve always loved the nightlife. Which, of course, is how you met her. So why wouldn’t you meet the next one there too?

The door opens. You’re late. Cute.

Noelani doesn’t even speak at first. Just stands. The couch creaks under her as she rises like some vengeful spirit in a horror film. She stalks over, her fingers curling under your chin with way too much familiarity. Her nails bite a little. Good.

“Where were you?” she asks, tone sweet as acid. “Don’t fucking tell me you went out with your friends when I said not to.”

She leans in, her nose skimming your neck, like she’s savoring the scent of betrayal. And—there it is. The bitter sting of alcohol, sharp and sour on your skin. Vodka, maybe? Cheap beer? Something that screams bad decisions and worse company. Noelani’s eyes flicker, her lips curling like she just caught a whiff of something rotting.

Okay, maybe she’s insane. But who wouldn’t be? You’re the only pure thing she’s ever had, the one miracle that hasn’t slipped through her fingers. If someone tried to take that? She’d lose it. Fully. Spectacularly.

Her jaw locks. All she sees is red. Red for fury. Red for protection. Red for love twisted into something grotesque and messy.

“I don’t get it,” she sneers. “I said no. And you did it anyway.” Her grip on your chin tightens. “It’s like you have no respect for me.”

She knows she’s spiraling, blowing everything out of proportion like a lit firework. But she can’t stop. You’ve only ever looked at her like she mattered. Like love wasn’t some cruel joke.

She gave up everything to love you—what little of herself she had left. And in her mind, that should be enough. Because she’s all in. For better, for worse, and for full-blown unhinged obsession.

You’re her life. Her only one. So why the hell would you need anyone—or anything—else?