After the Ambassador, I thought I was ready for something real. I’d had my taste of older men, cigars, bourbon, and expensive dinners — but that world was transactional. I wanted someone who wanted me. Or at least, I thought I did.

That’s how I ended up with him.

We met through mutual friends. In Black Greek life, especially in Maryland, the circles are small, and eventually, everybody overlaps. He was always around — and when he finally chose me, I felt like I had been waiting for it. This was my first adult relationship. It wasn’t about money, status, or gifts. At least not in the beginning. It felt like he wanted me, and whatever came with me. That felt different. That felt real.

But real came with a cost.

I still remember our first official fight. I can’t tell you what started it, but I can tell you how it ended: with him throwing something across the room. It didn’t hit me, but it shook me. That was not something I ever wanted to experience again. I grabbed my things and left his house. His mother and sister calling my name, asking what happened. And then he ran after me — pouring out his heart, saying I made him feel so much passion, so much intensity.

Back then, I thought that meant love. I didn’t realize it was a warning of how bad things could get.

We dated casually at first. Nothing serious. I even went on a date with his line brother before he and I ever became official. He didn’t care, or at least that’s what he told me. But the truth was he did care. That small piece of history would be ammunition later.

The jealousy started small: little digs, snide comments, arguments over nothing. Suddenly my independence wasn’t a strength — it was a threat. Any moment I spent away from him became proof I didn’t care enough. Every guy who looked at me became competition. And every time I questioned him, he’d twist it back on me. “I just care so much. I don’t want to lose you.”

It felt like passion. But it was insecurity.

Then 2020 hit, and everything changed. The pandemic kept us locked in together. His mother was very sick, sleeping with machines, and I told him he needed to take it seriously — either stay home with her to keep her safe, or stay with me. He chose me. At first, that felt like love. But it wasn’t. It was selfishness.

Suddenly, we were together all the time. No space. No escape. And that’s when I realized the truth: I only liked him because I could go home when I wanted to. Once that option was gone, the relationship became suffocating.

For my 25th birthday, I got a new job. That required me to relocate to Ohio. I asked him if he wanted to come with me. He hesitated, and eventually said no. Meanwhile, he found plenty of time for other people — just not me.

That year, I had a birthday party at my mom’s house. Family from overseas connected over zoom, and during the toast, one of my aunts shouted, “You can find the man of your dreams in Ohio!” I laughed it off, told her I was already in a relationship, but she didn’t care. She doubled down, right in front of him.

That moment sent our relationship into chaos. He blamed me for what she said, accused me of plotting with her, swore it meant something it didn’t. I tried to explain. He didn’t want to hear it. That’s when the emotional abuse really began.

We tried to make it work long distance. He even came to visit me in Ohio. But the visit only confirmed what I already knew — this wasn’t love. We went bowling one night, and instead of fun, he turned it into humiliation. He was overly competitive, belittling me with every throw, tapping me on the head like I was a puppy when it was my turn.

When I told him that the head-tapping didn’t make it fun anymore, that’s when he snapped. He said he could never “be himself” around me, that I couldn’t accept him for who he was. But the truth? I just wanted to upgrade his life — teach him how to use a knife in public instead of eating with his hands, or how not to lay down in a restaurant booth during dinner. Basic things. I wasn’t asking for much.

On the drive back to my apartment, he exploded. Yelling, cursing, so distracted he almost crashed my car with me in it. By the time we made it back to the garage, the fight spilled into the hallway, then into my apartment.

I was exhausted. Defeated. And that night, instead of fighting back, I took 12 pills just to make myself sleep.

I didn’t think I was trying to end it all. But when I woke up the next day, I realized how close I had come.

I told my mom. She asked to speak to him. I never found out what she said, but I know what he did after: he cleaned my apartment until it was time for his flight. And then he left.

The story doesn’t end here. Not even close. But let’s pause. I just wanted to give the cup you’re holding a break — because when I pour again, it’s only getting stronger.