I’d been dating Zeina for a year when I asked her to move in. She didn’t want to pay rent, didn’t want it to feel “transactional.” Fine by me — I was just happy she’d be there.
On move-in day, I went to buy groceries for a celebration dinner. When I came back, my apartment was unrecognizable. Furniture moved, photos gone, my dad’s guitar replaced by her décor. She called it “a fresh start.”
Then I found boxes labeled Memorabilia — filled with my missing things: shirts, photos, even an old journal. She’d been quietly collecting parts of my life. When I asked why, she said, “I wanted pieces of you. You don’t need that old stuff now.”
That’s when I knew it wasn’t love — it was control. I asked her to leave.
Months later, I learned she’d done the same thing to another guy.
Eventually, I started seeing someone new — Maya. We moved in together, no drama, no control. My things stayed where they belonged.
I don’t hate Zeina. She just never knew where she ended and others began.
Love isn’t about who changes your world — it’s who lets you keep yours.
