When Love Turned Toxic

“Who made you be this way?” he asked, his eyes fixed on me like he could see every crack I tried to hide. I scoffed under my breath. “The devil in disguise did. He burned me in hell.” His gaze sharpened. “Is he the reason for the scars on your arms and wrists too?” My hands moved before I could think, tugging my sleeves down further — as if fabric could erase memory. “They’re not scars,” I said quietly. “They’re battle wounds.” “A battle with who?” His voice dropped, softer now, heavier with something I didn’t want to name. I swallowed, staring at anything but him. “Myself.” And that was the truth I hated the most. Because the war wasn’t just about him. It was about what he turned me into. No one tells you what it feels like when love stops being soft. They don’t prepare you for the kind of attachment that eats at your peace instead of protecting it. The kind that makes your heart race and your mind spiral at the same time. The kind that doesn’t feel like safety — it feels like addiction. At first, it was beautiful. The attention. The intensity. The way he looked at me like I mattered more than I should. But beautiful things rot too. And I didn’t notice the decay until I was already too deep to climb out. Until I stopped recognizing myself without him. Until silence felt louder than his presence ever did. Until I found myself breaking in places no one could see — smiling in public, falling apart alone. And the worst part? I didn’t even blame him at first. Because toxic love doesn’t feel toxic when you’re inside it. It just feels like needing someone more than you need air.