At first, I thought Oliver loved me. I really did. He used to hold my hand in crowded rooms, kiss my forehead when I felt insecure, and tell me I was the most important person in his life. There were moments when I believed we were perfect—like the time he surprised me on my birthday with a picnic at the park or when he spent an entire day helping me study for my finals. I thought he cared, thought he wanted me in his life.
But over time, cracks started to show. Little things. Like how he’d dismiss my feelings when I was upset. “You’re overreacting, Hannah,” he’d say, or, “It’s not that big of a deal.” And when I’d get mad, he’d twist it around, making it feel like it was my fault. I started to doubt myself, questioning whether I was too emotional or needy.
I didn’t even realize it at first, but everything about us became convenient—for him. I was there when he needed support, when he needed someone to stroke his ego, but when I needed him, he always had an excuse. And somehow, he always made me feel like I was the problem.