It’s all true. Timmy is massive compared to me, and he sometimes does hurt me, physically and emotionally. But I see glimpses of his potential, his good parts.
The way he makes me laugh until I cry nearly every day, those fleeting moments of thoughtfulness that feel like sunshine breaking through the storm clouds.
The way he’ll give me little snippets of his attention that remind me of the earliest days of our relationship.
The way his eyes light up when he starts drawing or working on graphic design—tiny sparks of who he could be if he tried.
And we do have sex and it’s decent—it’s not like it was in the beginning by any means, but not terrible, and it makes me feel closer to him.
Once, he wakes me up early with the smell of pancakes. “Surprise,” he says, smiling shyly. He’s even set the table with a vase of tropical flowers he’d found outside.
For a moment, it feels like the Timmy I fell for. But by lunch, he’s calling me a bitch for not buying his favorite brand of chips.
Those good sparks are so rare, and the storm so constant, that I wonder if I’m just a fool. An absolute fucking moron, in fact.
Each time I see a couple on vacation walking past, hand in hand, laughing, headed to the beach, I feel happy for them, but at the same time like I’m being stabbed and the knife being twisted.
That’s what I came here for, and instead I’m facing a prison sentence of my own making, just by virtue of choosing to be with Timmy.
I can barely sleep. I have constant tension headaches. It’s near impossible for me to take more than a couple of bites of food without retching. The stress is building and it’s hurting more than just my mind.
How long am I supposed to wait for him to live up to the version of himself I fell for, or the person he claims to be?
How long do I have to keep holding his hand, teaching him how to be an adult, walking on eggshells, catering to his every mood swing to avoid his tantrums?
How long is it going to take until he consistently behaves like someone worthy of my time?
The frustration builds until I can’t keep it in anymore, so I type out another note:
It’s embarrassing to wonder if you ever really loved me.
Am I a fool?
But then, if I really think about it, it’s not embarrassing for me. It’s embarrassing for you.
Because, if the latter is the case, it means you’re the one going around being deceitful, feeling like you’ve ‘won’ something against a person much better than you.
In which case, you’re the dick. You’re the absolute loser who feeds on being calculating and deceitful.
And now you’re the one who has to live with that.
Not me.
So go away.
Bye bye.
Flutter off and reap what you sow, fuckface.
I want to scream these words at him, to throw them in his face and watch them hit their mark.
But I know better.
Screaming at Timmy only leads to danger—his rage, his cold retaliation, or worse.
The last time I screamed at him, he smashed dishes violently into the sink, pieces scattering like shrapnel. ‘Look what you made me do!’ he’d snarled, and I’d spent the rest of the night in the fetal position, rocking myself to sleep, my heart pounding.
So I save my anger for my Notes app, a hidden vault of all the things I’m too afraid to say out loud. It’s a tiny act of defiance, and something that would piss him off very badly should he ever read them.
