2 septembre 2026

“We’re not married, you don’t own me,” he said at the bar when I asked why he gave his number to the waitress. I nodded and moved out while he was at a club. He came home to half-empty rooms and a note saying “You’re right. I don’t”

Smiling.

Daring me to react.

So I did.

Quietly, I asked,

“Then why are you living like you’re in a relationship with me?”

He laughed.

Not awkwardly. Not nervously.

Just casually—like I was the one being unreasonable.

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