All of my belongings had been stuffed into a tiny hall closet, as if I were a guest in my own home. Matt, fully settled in, claimed space like a king marking his territory. When I asked about it, his answer was cold: “I’m the one paying for the place, so it makes sense to prioritize my stuff.” And that wasn’t the end. He started demanding I cook for him, justifying it with, “It’s the least you can do, considering everything I’m covering.”

That’s when I realized—this wasn’t love. This was control wrapped in kindness. I didn’t fight. I didn’t yell. I called his father. Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Reynolds was in our kitchen, slapping a dollar on the counter and commanding his son to “dance,” because “whoever pays runs the house,” right? That moment shattered Matt’s illusion of power. I packed up that night and left with my dignity. Now, I live alone in a studio that’s truly mine, where I cook only when I want and answer to no one. Because real love doesn’t come with terms and conditions—it comes with respect.