It’s not sexual, but it feels invasive, a chore I never signed up for. And he reciprocates, but even that feels transactional, a reminder of the strings attached to his every gesture of kindness.
At the same time, his savory broths—once a source of comfort—have turned into another tool of control. I can’t even enjoy a simple bowl of soup without it becoming a power play.
Whether he wants to offer the broth to me or not is indicative of his moods, which directly impact the energy in our apartment.Off, off, off.
If I have a sip, it tastes good. But I know it’s just a game now. A weird tool. Imagine having broth as your tool to manipulate another human being.Will I share it with you or won’t I?
And then he’ll mention what a nice person he is, going out of his way to accommodate my preferences.
“See, I made it extra spicy, just the way you like it,” he says, his tone saccharine.
“I made the onions just slightly cooked so they’re crunchy for you.”
“I made it super spicy, just the way you like it.”
“I didn’t put the crunchy things in that you don’t like.”
Always the gentleman and yet also never the gentleman.
So thoughtful, but the thought nearly always turns out to be grounded in manipulation.
Or, worse, he eats it in front of me with a smirk, refusing to share.
It’s broth, not a dick, Timmy. Stop taking it so hard.
The games never end. Something as simple as soup has become a test, a manipulation, a reflection of his mood. And I hate it. I hate that he’s tainted so many things I used to love.
There’s no more spoon-feeding—which I’m fine with because that’s annoying, although he does keep warning me it’s hot. It’s just a stark contrast from how he behaved when we first met, when he pretended to put effort in for anyone’s benefit but his own.
I’m so tired.
I’m so exhausted.
There’s literally nothing that Timmy can’t find a way to ruin.
I don’t know how that’s even possible.
I didn’t ask for this, Timmy.
I love your broths, but I wish that’s all they were about.
I hate that something so deep of flavor, so rich, so resonant, can be made by someone like you. Someone fake deep. So into themselves and their shallow representation.
Something that used to make my stomach flutter now makes it flip like a wild storm.
Something that gave me peace now gives me panic.
Like you.
You were my life raft and now you’re my murderous anchor, pulling me down into the murky depths.
I hate it.
I hate you.
But I also love you.
And I feel like I’m drowning.