I thought it was love

You didn’t fall for me — you studied me. Learned my cracks, my quiet places, the way I reach for warmth even when it burns. You called it fate, but it was choreography. Every compliment was a leash, every promise a hook. You said no one would love me like you did and you were right. Because what you called love was really control wrapped in roses, apologies soaked in perfume, a cage disguised as comfort. I kept trying to earn the version of you that never existed. And by the time I realized it, I was apologizing for bleeding on the hands that cut me.