I never thought love could feel like a cage. Not until I met him. In the beginning, it was perfect—he was everything I wanted. But slowly, his questions began to slip into our conversations, small at first, innocent.

“Was he funnier than me?” he’d ask, as if it was just another curiosity. I’d laugh it off, thinking it was normal. But then, it grew.

Now, it’s constant. Every day, he measures himself against men who are no longer in my life, ghosts that I’ve buried long ago. “You still think about him, don’t you?” The accusations fly, even when I’m just sitting quietly. No matter how much I tell him I don’t, it’s like he can’t believe it.

What hurts the most is that it feels like he’s competing with something that doesn’t exist anymore. My past is just that—the past. But to him, it’s a weapon. He uses it to torture himself, and, in turn, it tortures me.

Some days, I wonder if this is his way of controlling me, keeping me trapped in a web of guilt for things I have no control over. Other days, I think it’s his own self-esteem crumbling under the weight of his own insecurity.

Is it cucked behavior? Maybe. But it’s also tragic. Watching someone you love tear themselves apart over something that should have no power over them is heartbreaking. I wish I knew how to save him, but the more he fights these invisible enemies, the further away he gets from me.