At first, I loved that about her.
Then everything became a performance.
A quiet dinner wasn’t romantic unless someone photographed it. A gift wasn’t meaningful unless it was expensive enough to impress her followers. An ordinary disagreement became a crisis if it could be turned into a story in which she was the victim.
Once, she posted a tearful video about feeling abandoned because I hadn’t answered her messages for two hours.
I’d been in a meeting with a customer. My phone was in my truck.
Another time, she accused me of flirting with a waitress because I’d asked whether the woman was having a difficult shift.
I apologized, even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.
That was the pattern.
She would explode. I would explain. She would cry. I would comfort her. Somehow, by the end of the night, I would be apologizing for the original argument.
The last night we were together, she threw my phone against the wall because I’d told her I couldn’t cancel a major order to accompany her to an event.
