Have you ever been in love, Luce? I have, once. It's such beautiful pain, such deceptive entrapment. So much so you don't know how bad it's gotten until it's too late. It didn't start bad, though. It started like ... ice cream melting on your tongue after a day in the sun, like nestling into your warm covers with the sound of rain pattering outside. In other words, it was pretty fucking amazing. He was pretty fucking amazing.

But of course, it didn't last. Good things rarely do.

It started with little things, nudges aside whenever we had male friends over, jokes about my appearance that were just subtle enough to be still seen as teasing, grudges over small mistakes that lasted longer than they should have, and this oppressive tension, like a rubber band stretched between us. But then he'd buy me flowers, or drop by my work to give me coffee, or sweep me off my feet when I got home and shower me with kisses, and I'd think, It's okay. I'm just imagining things. Because obviously, people can't be more than one thing. Obviously, he couldn't be terrifying and wonderful.

Most people don't remember exactly when that rubber band snaps, but I do. It was at the grocery store at five in the evening. We were picking up basic foodstuffs for our apartment when I saw her. His ex, standing a few feet away looking terrified, as though we were pointing a gun at her head. I remember telling him to grab milk and eggs without really knowing why I was trying to get him to leave. And the moment he was gone, she was rushing up to me and gripping my arm so hard it hurt, and I was turning to tell her to please let go when she pulled me to her and whispered, "You need to leave him."

Now, I'm not usually jealous or suspicious, but when your boyfriend's ex comes up to you and tells you to scram, you tend to get a bit defensive. I don't know if I yanked my arm free or shoved her away or both, but I do remember being a little ways away about to say a few choice things when she lifted her shirt and showed me a long scar across her abdomen. It was puffy and jagged like she'd been slashed with a dull kitchen knife. And then she was gone, and he was pulling at my arm, yanking me around and demanding to know what the hell that was, and I just brushed him off and finished shopping.

I was so disturbed and confused and scared, but I didn't leave him. I stayed, and I still loved him. But after that, I stopped trusting him, and he stopped pulling his punches. I felt terrorized in my own home like I couldn't do anything without an explosion. I pulled back from the world and myself and just survived. I stopped talking to most of my friends and family. I stopped going out to do things because it just wasn't worth the battle.

There was this one fight that I think I'll never forget. It wasn't the worst we've ever had, but it snapped something in me. I don't remember what it was over, but it escalated to him throwing the flour jar at me. It shattered next to me, covering me with flour. I said sorry and went to the bathroom, and I remember thinking, this is what a ghost looks like. I'm a ghost haunting my own house, with no say in how it changes. And I laughed and laughed until I cried.

When I finally broke free, it was messy. I packed my stuff into the cardboard boxes I'd stolen from our neighbors on recycling day and refused to let myself cry. He ripped up all our pictures and had a bonfire party with his friends, cursing my name with a pack of beer in his system. I got a new address and flinched whenever I heard the doorbell. He went on a fuckboy streak and slept with every girl in a ten-mile radius to prove that I didn't matter. And one night I cut all my hair off and donated it, dyeing what was left in some crazy attempt to forget him, to ignore the marks left on me. As though he isn't the reason I hate my smile, the reason I sleep with a teddy bear nightlight on, the reason I barely have any friends left.

And for the record, it took me ages before I stopped placing the blame on myself and put it in its rightful place. I still have to stop myself from thinking that I should have known better, should have seen the signs before I did. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and all that.

So there you go, the piece I was scared to tell you. God, I'm not even sure if I'll send this. I'll try, though. I promise I'll try. If I did get the courage to send this, then thank you, Luce. Thank you for listening, for believing in me, for caring about me when I couldn't. Whatever happens after this party, just know that I'm grateful. Maybe you're karma's way of apologizing after all the shit it put me through. And if we never get the chance to talk again, I guess here's my confession. I love you. I love your goofy humor, your obsession with cars, and your penchant for cosplaying.

And I think I understand you a bit more than you think. You think you aren't good enough to be loved; that if you let me in, I'll get hurt and it'll be your fault. So, your best option is to be a dick and push me away. Did I get it right? If so, I have news for you. No amount of sitting in the hallway and breaking robots is going to change anything. I'm stubborn, and I'm not a child. I can make informed decisions about my life.

After I send this, I'm going out for a bit. I need to see my dad. I think... I think it's finally time I tell him everything that happened. I think he'd want to know, and it'll make me feel a lot better. I've been carrying this with me for over a year now, and keeping it to myself hasn't helped. So I'm going to share it. And then I'm probably going to have to stop my dad from committing homicide via a baseball bat to the head. Wish me luck!

[This is going to be a long note, so you don't have to read it. ;) ]

There you have it. My collection of experiences, mostly second hand, all wrapped up into one story. I think watching friends and family go through abusive relationships has kind of ruined my ability to enjoy romance stories, and I'm not sure if that's a reflection of myself or a reflection of how some romances are written. There's definitely a massive problem with abuse being passed off as romantic, both in professional writing and on writing platforms like Wattpad. Maybe its less harmful on Wattpad (lots of us are just teenagers who haven't figured out boundaries and relationships yet (our schools should spend more time on this stuff and less time on calculus)), but in the professional world, it's horrifying (*cough* Fifty Shades of Gray *cough*). I have no idea what to do about it beyond recognizing it's a really toxic trope and calling it out when I see it, but maybe someone much smarter than me will figure out what to do. Regardless, I'll leave you with some advice regarding relationships.

Relationships are partnerships. They aren't all this "one soul in two bodies" or the weird "I'm theirs, and they are mine" crap. You are no ones but the person you see whenever you look in the mirror. If someone is trying to tell you differently and trying to dictate your life, then they're scummy. A relationship should be equal. You should both be able to have your own lives outside of each other, and when you spend time with them, they aren't supposed to make you feel awful consistently. You shouldn't have to make excuses as to why you can't hang out with them because you're scared or uncomfortable, and you certainly shouldn't feel like you have to avoid them regularly. Make mistakes, learn your boundaries, and experience life, but always remember that the first person you should care about it yourself, and if someone is making you uncomfortable, regardless of how they feel, you should set whatever boundaries you need to.

Good luck, and use protection!

~ Avie