He becomes irritable, snapping over small things. Suddenly, the goodwill he’d built evaporates, and it’s as if those one to two good weeks give him permission to behave badly for the next however long. It’s a pendulum, swinging back and forth. And right now, I can feel the shift beginning, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Timmy is still sweet and affectionate most of the time. He makes me laugh, cooks me dinner, and cuddles me until I fall asleep. But there’s an edge to his energy again now—a restlessness that makes my skin prickle.
It’s in the way he taps his fingers against the table, a little too fast.The way he starts projects and abandons them halfway through. The way he paces the apartment, muttering to himself.
I try to push the unease aside, telling myself that I’m overthinking it. But the bile rises in my throat every time I catch a glimpse of that manic gleam in his eyes. Something is brewing. And this time, I’m scared it’s going to be worse than before.
I hate that I feel this way, that I’m always bracing for impact, waiting for the moment when the switch flips and everything falls apart again.
It’s exhausting, constantly analyzing his moods, walking on eggshells to avoid triggering an outburst. And yet, I keep doing it. Because the good moments—the laughter, the affection, the way he holds me like I’m the most precious thing in the world—those moments make it feel worth it.
But how long can I keep riding this roller coaster? How many more times can I convince myself that the good will eventually outweigh the bad?
Because I know the pattern now. I can see it coming, like dark clouds on the horizon. And this time, it feels bigger, heavier—like a storm that’s going to break harder than ever before.
The scariest part is, at this point, I know I’ll stay. At least for now. And he seems to know it too. Because I love him, and I want to believe in him.
But deep down, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep convincing myself that love is enough.
115
VINDICTIVE
The Next Day
I get up and start working, sitting on the bed like usual, while Timmy continues to sleep. At one point, he turns over and faces me, his eyes open, and he mutters something unintelligible. I ignore him at first, but he speaks again, and I realize he’s talking to me.
“Good morning, babe,” I smile at him. “How did you sleep?”
He suddenly startles, his eyes flying wide open, filled with rage, his arms flailing around so wildly it makes me jump. “What the fuck? Margaux! You fucking woke me up! Fuck you!” His mouth forms a tight scowl.
“Oh no, Timmy. I’m sorry I woke you,” I whisper softly. I really thought he was awake. “Your eyes were open, and you were talking to me.”
“Bullshit.” Timmy’s response is immediate and sharp, like a whip crack. “Fuck you for waking me up.”
My stomach twists at the venom in his words. I haven’t even had a coffee yet and I’ve already managed to get him so upset he’s swearing at me. Great.
I stay quiet for a moment, willing myself to stay calm, not quitetrusting myself to navigate my way through this unexpected conflict. “I said sorry,” I say evenly, keeping my voice soft. But the truth is, I’m scared.
With Timmy, apologies seem to play on repeat. They’re a trap, a twisted game with no winning move. Not by me, at least. I try to tread carefully, to be the bigger person, to say sorry when the offense was trivial and even sometimes when I didn’t do anything at all, just to smooth things over.
But somehow, every apology I give gets swallowed into some invisible abyss between us, as if I never uttered the words at all. He simply seems to forget every time I’ve taken accountability, saying I never uttered the words I know in my heart and memory that I did so many times.
Today appears to be no exception, and his glare lingers, heavy with resentment at my early morning faux pas.
Later, when he’s fully awake and watching a movie, his expression grows sullen. “I still can’t believe you woke me up and didn’t even apologize,” he scoffs. His eyes scan me with barely concealed irritation.
I straighten, looking up from my work on my laptop, feeling the familiar knot of disbelief coil in my chest. “Ididapologize,” I say carefully. “More than once.”
“No,” Timmy snaps, his jaw clenching as if I just insulted him. “You never said sorry.”
My breath catches. It’s like talking to a wall—or actually, worse than a wall. It’s like talking to a version of him that flips reality on its head, twisting everything upside down so I’m always in the wrong, and then accusing me of doing that very same thing.
“Timmy, this is thethirdtime now that I’m saying I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry I woke you up, and I know you hate that. But it was a mistake, and I genuinely thought you were awake. I hope we can move past this.” My voice shakes slightly. I want so desperately to be heard, to get through to him.
“No, you didn’t,” he replies, shaking his head. “Stop lying.” His tone turns sharp and final, as if I’m being dismissed, as if his versionof events is an unshakeable truth. “Youneverapologize,” he adds. “You always blame me for everything, and nothing is ever your fault.”
His words hit me with the force of a wave, leaving me reeling. He can’t be serious. I feel like I’m suffocating, trapped in an argument that bears no resemblance to the actual truth, and where logic simply doesn’t apply. It’s as if there are two versions of reality—his and mine—and no amount of reasoning will bridge the gap between us.