Confessions of a toxic lover

The difference between me and an abandoned building is the "unsafe" sign—except mine isn't as obvious. I will listen to your troubles, your woes, and respond with such empathy and understanding that you'd think I was a sanctuary. I'll shower you with gifts, not out of pure generosity, but as part of a desperate attempt to buy your love and affection. But would you really blame me?

Since childhood, I had to bribe my way into receiving attention. My parents never noticed me unless I earned it, and even then, something as small as a "well done" felt like an unreachable prize. I did everything I could—bending, shifting, stretching—just to hear those simple words of recognition. Going the extra mile became second nature, like breathing. And if one plan failed, I had backup strategies: not just Plan B, but all the way to Plan Z.

When you look at me, really look, you'll notice the warning signs aren't gone—they're just hidden well beneath layers of effort and charm. If you're not careful, you might not see them until it's too late. When I'm done with you, you won’t even recognize yourself, let alone know what hit you. It’ll feel like a whirlwind—bewitching, intoxicating—but ultimately destructive. And when the dust settles, you'll wonder how you missed the signs. But they were always there.