Valentine’s Day—roughly two weeks in—he told me he loved me. That he was in love with me. I said I felt the same, though in hindsight, I wasn’t there yet. I was falling, not landed. I was caught in the intensity of it all—the attention, the promises, the certainty with which he spoke about us . I was in lust, mesmerized by who he said he was, by everything he said he wanted to do for me, for us. Any time I expressed concern, stress, or asked how we would handle a real issue, he had the same answer: “We’ll figure it out together. That’s part of the deal.” Nothing was ever a big problem to him—at least not when it came to the relationship. He had a way of making me feel like I was overreacting, like my instincts were unnecessary because everything would always be fine. He constantly professed his love—how much he loved me, loved what we were building, how we could work through anything. Our days were filled with flirty text messages, lunchtime phone calls, and evenin...
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