Every day with him feels like walking on shattered glass. I try to piece together the present, but his eyes are always looking over my shoulder, searching for ghosts that don’t exist anymore.

“You loved him, didn’t you?” he asks, referencing a man from my past for what feels like the hundredth time. His words sting, not because of who I used to be with, but because he seems more fixated on that than on us.

“That was years ago,” I say, hoping to remind him that I’m here with him now. But no matter how much I reassure him, his insecurity wraps around our relationship like a thorny vine, choking out the joy.

It started small—little jokes about my ex. But now, it’s almost an obsession. He compares himself to every man I’ve ever dated, even to those who were fleeting moments in my past.

I wonder: is this jealousy or something darker? Is it a reflection of his insecurities, or does he secretly enjoy this self-inflicted torment? There’s a certain twisted satisfaction in being the victim of your own mind, but I’m the one left bleeding.

We can’t move forward because he’s anchored in the past. I love him, but every time he brings it up, I wonder if we’ll ever escape this cycle. How can I compete with memories that he won’t let die?

I sigh, turning to him, exhausted. “I’m with you, not him. Why can’t that be enough?”

But it never is.