I don’t like how you chew.

A letter to the love I let lose

I don’t like how you chew.
You chew like you’re better than everyone else – like even your jawline’s got an ego. Like you’re chewing better than everyone else in this world and you know it. That’s what bothers me.
The knowing.
It’s not just the chewing – it’s the way you carry yourself like you’re right. About everything.

And somehow, my heart still races just saying that.
Because every time I criticize you – even lightly – something inside me panics.
Not because you’re right. But because I’ve spent so long convincing myself maybe you are.

Maybe he just needs time.
Maybe he’s trying.
Maybe he’s not that bad.

But no.
All the therapy and pills in the world won’t mean shit without willingness.
And you don’t have it.

It’s not about the chewing.
It’s about everything else.
It’s about the gaslighting. The rewriting. The “it’s not that bad.”
You told me my reactions were the problem.
That my boundaries were dramatic.
That my OCD was convenient – something you could weaponize when the story didn’t flatter you.

Yes. My OCD. Which, by the way, is getting better.

I did notice the elbow touching. How ridiculous to even write out.
It bothered me – not because I thought it was cheating (because it’s not) but because my OCD spiralled. My brain grabbed it and ran: “It’s fine, it’s nothing, people touch in photos, it’s platonic.”
I told myself that to not overreact.
I told myself that because I’ve been working on it.
But instead of seeing that, you made it about you.
Suddenly you were the disrespected one.
For what? A photo? A harmless platonic pose?
You acted like I betrayed you – when in reality, I was just trying to stay sane.
Trying not to let my OCD win.
Trying not to let you win.
And I know – it’s not even a competition.
I know that.
But with you, it always somehow feels like one.
Even my healing gets treated like a threat.

And still, I forgave. Again. And again.
But the thing is: I don’t believe your apologies.

You only say sorry to get me off your back.
You say sorry so I’ll stop talking, stop crying, stop ruining the mood.
You say sorry so that we’ll have sex.
And no – I don’t use sex as a weapon.
I need to feel safe to want sex.
And you don’t make me feel safe.
You make me feel used. Controlled. Reduced.

I’ve never slept with someone just to sleep with them. I need intimacy. Closeness. Connection.
And the more you broke me down, the less I felt anything but resentment.

You didn’t just gaslight me – you crossed lines you pretended not to see.
There were moments that left marks – not just on my skin but on the parts of me I used to rely on to feel strong.
Moments I still can’t say out loud without my throat closing up.
But they happened.
And I still tried to forgive you.
I still tried to love you.

I’ve spent so long explaining away your behaviour to myself, it’s like I was your full-time PR team.
You twisted everything. You even twisted why I stayed.
You blamed it on me. On my empathy.
And I hate how long I defended you – to myself.

I wanted to believe you were hurting, that deep down, under the cruelty and the ego, there was something soft and worth saving.

Maybe there is.
But that’s not my job anymore and it was never up to me.

Because here’s what I believe now:
You’d rather see me drink again than get sober yourself.
You’d rather drag me down than pull yourself up.
You’re more comfortable watching me fall than doing the work to rise.

That’s not love.
That’s insecurity wearing love’s clothes.

I don’t even know if I love you anymore.
Or if I just loved the version of you I imagined.

But I do know this:
If that willingness doesn’t come – and quick, quick – I have to go.
And I’m letting you lose me.
On purpose.