To Break You For Your Own Good

The thought brought a fresh wave of tears. I hugged Marissa and cried my heart out.

If Lance was the nightmare I couldn't escape, Marissa was the angel fate had sent to save me.

I went to the penthouse we were meant to share, the one that was supposed to be our home, to pack my things.

To my surprise, Lance was already there.

He sat on the sofa, not even bothering to look up. "Done with your tantrum? Decided to come back?"

I fought to keep my voice from trembling. "I'm not throwing a tantrum, Lance. I'm really leaving."

"I just came back to get my things."

Unexpectedly, Lance said nothing more. He just sat there, one leg casually crossed over the other, watching me with an unnerving, almost mocking smirk. Swallowing the knot of dread in my throat, I started packing.

There wasn't much that was truly mine—just a handful of items. Lance had bought most of my belongings after I moved in.

When we first started living together, he had frowned at my colorful paintings and tattoo designs.

"Leann, why is your stuff so gloomy? It's hideous."

The next day, he threw it all away.

I confronted him, but he just said dismissively, "Your things were cheap and tasteless. I did you a favor and replaced them."

That was the first time I wanted to break up with him. I didn't understand why personal preference had to be judged as high or low class.

But my mom talked me out of it. "Lance cares so much about you. Just humor him a little. You've been together for so many years; you can't break up over something so trivial."

That time, I compromised. It was only much later that I realized it wasn't trivial at all.

Anything that makes you feel small is never a small thing.