“I Thought I Was in Love… Then He Told Me What He Really Wants.”
When I first met him, I thought I had finally found something real.
He was older. Confident. Protective in a way that made me feel seen, safe, and chosen—things I had craved for a long time. I’m 17. He’s 19. We’d talk for hours. I felt special when he looked at me like I was the only girl in the world.
And maybe that’s why I ignored the first few red flags.
He told me upfront that he hated kids. Couldn’t stand cats. Thought anything “cute” was stupid. He’d get jealous over everything—other boys, my friends, even if I liked a post too fast. But he’d laugh it off later and tell me he was “just possessive because he cared.”
I wanted to believe that. I needed to.
We’ve been together for six months now.
And a few weeks ago… he told me something I can’t un-hear.
It started after a quiet walk. We were sitting near the river, and out of nowhere, he said he needed to confess something. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t scared. Just… calm.
He told me he doesn’t feel empathy. Not even a little.
He said he doesn’t understand sadness when others are crying.
And then he said this: he sometimes has violent urges.
He said he feels pain—actual pain—in the front-right part of his head and in his chest when he doesn’t act on them.
He used the word rape.
He used the word kill.
He said he’d never do anything to a human because it’s a sin in his religion. That he believes in hell, and he doesn’t want to go there. He told me he’s fought these urges his whole life.
But then he added:
“Sometimes I still want to kill a cat. I think it’d feel good.”
That’s when my stomach turned.
I didn’t know what to say. I just sat there, frozen. I kept thinking, This isn’t happening. He’s joking, right? But the look in his eyes—it wasn’t a joke. It was cold. Still. Honest.
I asked if he’d ever go to therapy. He said no.
He said he doesn’t want to change.
That therapy is too expensive. That his family would never allow it. That if anyone ever found out what he really thinks, he’d either be locked up or worse.
And yet—he’s always so gentle with me. He hugs me tight. He kisses my forehead. He says he wants a future with me.
I still love him.
And I HATE that I do.
Every night since then, I’ve felt sick. What if one day he snaps? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I’m the reason he finally loses control?
He hasn’t hurt me. He never even raised his voice.
But sometimes when I’m near him, I get chills. Like my body knows something my heart doesn’t want to admit.
Last night, we were on a call. I tried to act normal, like I always do. And I asked, “Do you ever feel like you could hurt me?”
He paused. Laughed a little. And then he said this:
“Not unless you ever leave me.”
My chest caved in.
I laughed it off like a joke.
But that was the moment I realized—I’m not in love. I’m in danger.
And now I don’t know how to leave.
Because I think if I do…
…I won’t survive it.
