The guy in front of me turned around to look at me, and I lowered my eyes to meet his. His stare lingered for seconds, but it felt like minutes. He had bright grey eyes that complimented his brown skin, and light pink lips. His hair was neatly cut into soft jerry curls. He was handsome.
I was still staring at his back when he turned to look at me again. I choked on my breath and let out a light cough. He smiled. His teeth weren’t exactly white, but they were clean—milky and natural.
After class, he approached me and introduced himself as Smith, then asked if we could be friends.
Aside from my high school classmates (none of whom were in my department), Smith became my closest friend. We ate lunch together at the café, went to fresher’s night, and sometimes, after classes, we would stop by the mall.
I remember one day so vividly, when we went to a clothing store and he picked out a short red dress, holding it up with a smile.
"This would look hot on you," he said.
I smiled. When I reached for a different one, something simpler, he shook his head.
"No babe, trust me. This one’s better."
I wore it that weekend to one of his friend's birthday, even though I didn’t feel comfortable in it. Still, he was happy, and at the time, that was enough for me.
After our first semester exams, he asked me to be his girlfriend. I accepted. We were already the most admired couple in the faculty; the label was the only thing missing.
In our second year, Smith gambled away his money and pleaded with me to let him move in for a while. I didn’t hesitate. I told him he could move in anytime. My girlfriends were against it. They told me it could become unhealthy and that they wouldn’t feel comfortable visiting if he was always around. But I shrugged them off.
‘You all have your homes,’ I said. ‘Smith doesn’t.’
“He has male friends! Elena” Lucy said.
“But he asked me. That means he wants me to be the one to help him,” I replied.
A few days later, Smith moved in and we began living like a perfect couple. He handled most of the buying, while I did the cleaning and cooking.
“Your friends don’t like me,” Smith pointed out one day.
“They do,” I said.
We argued for a while, and I realized Smith wasn’t comfortable around them. He didn’t want them near me anymore. He sounded so helpless that I decided to stop inviting my friends over. Eventually, I stopped visiting them too.
Smith became the center of my world. Everything I did revolved around him. He monitored my dressing, my phone calls, my hobbies, everything. He always won our arguments, and I always ended up doing whatever he wanted.
He would drag me to parties and beg me to take two or three shots of alcohol.
“I’m here, baby. You have nothing to be scared of,” he would say.
But I always woke up the next morning in a hotel, confused and filled with regret.
“You’re overreacting, babe. Stop making me feel like a bad person.” he would say whenever I confronted him. And I’d end up apologizing, feeling guilty for even being upset.
Eventually, he got his rent back. But instead of moving out, he asked if he could start paying the rent. I agreed, relieved I wouldn’t have to save for it anymore. He made sure I never lacked anything; but at the expense of my freedom.
Smith started pushing me to read. He bought stacks of books, assigned pages like homework, and scolded me if I didn’t finish on time. They were adult stories, not the kind I enjoyed, but I read them because it made him happy. All I saw was how much he loved me, how much he wanted the best for me.
Then one weekend, I followed him to a bookshop. It was my first time there. The books were arranged on shelves that towered to the ceiling. The air smelled of wood, earth, and a hint of vanilla. A few people moved quietly through the aisles, flipping through pages.
I leaned beside my handsome boyfriend and our hands found each other.
Just as he was about to whisper something in my ear, my eyes caught sight of a shelf in the far corner. It looked old. I walked toward it and scanned the titles. These weren’t adult stories...
One of the book with an interesting title caught my attention: A Letter to My Growing Daughter, Lucy. I picked it up, and Smith paid for it. He bought two adult novels for himself, as usual.
The book centered on women’s growth, recognizing toxic relationships, and reclaiming personal power. Every chapter felt like a mirror. I read about manipulation, gaslighting, and emotional control, and slowly, I realized I was living it.
The more I read, the more sober I became. I cried myself to sleep after almost every chapter. I hadn’t realized how pathetic my life had become until then. My eyes opened, and I saw the kind of man I had been living with. His actions were described so clearly in the book, it felt like the author knew him personally.
I became self-aware and Smith began to notice the change. I stopped following him to parties and started attending my lectures regularly.
One morning over breakfast, I told him what I’d learned from the book. I asked him to read it, hoping he’d understand and adjust. But he refused. Instead, he told me I was becoming “scary.” But this time, instead of keeping silent and adjusting, I told him we might not continue the relationship if he didn’t change.
Smith did change. And I was happy, believing he loved me enough to try. But it only lasted a week. Everything returned to how it used to be: the tantrums, the silent treatment, the control.
He only changed whenever I threatened to leave, then reverted back after a week or two.
I realized I couldn’t fix him.
One Friday evening, while Smith was out clubbing, I mustered up the courage to visit Lucy. I apologized to her and all my friends. They welcomed me back with open arms, and I nearly cried.
Two days later, after a heated argument with Smith, I left home with just my handbag. I returned a few days later with Lucy to pack the rest of my things. He begged and cried. I cried too, because I felt broken. But there was nothing I could do.
I had to free myself because I couldn’t fix him.
It took just one visit to a bookshop for me to see my life clearly. And though Smith had put books in my hands, his intention was never to set me free.
But somehow, he did.
