I’m 17. He’s 19.
I started dating him because… I liked him. A lot. More than I ever thought I could like someone. He made me feel safe, cared for, like I mattered in a way nobody else had before. And I still love him. That’s why this is so hard.
When we first talked, he said something that I brushed off. He said he hated kids. Cats. Anything “cute.”
I laughed it off. I thought it was a quirk. A weird joke. A personality thing.
And yes… he gets jealous. Very fast. I ignored it at first. But now I wonder if I should have paid more attention.
Then, a few weeks ago, he told me something I can’t stop thinking about. Something that has made my stomach hurt every time I remember it.
He said… he doesn’t feel empathy. He said he doesn’t feel sadness.
And then he said something worse.
He said he sometimes has urges to kill or rape. He said that when he feels these urges, it physically hurts—his head, the front right side, and his heart. He said it’s like holding it in is tearing him apart from the inside.
I froze. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.
I asked him if he would get help. Therapy. Counseling. Anything.
He said he couldn’t—money, family problems. And then he said something that chilled me to the bone: he doesn’t want to change.
He said he doesn’t want to go to jail. He doesn’t want to end up in a mental hospital. He doesn’t want to go to hell.
But he admitted something that made my blood run cold.
He said he wouldn’t hurt humans. “It’s a big sin in my religion,” he said. But… he still wants to kill a cat.
I couldn’t process it. I love him. He’s never hurt me. He’s always sweet to me. Always there. Always smiling. Always protective.
But now… I’m scared. Terrified.
I love him, but I feel like there’s a part of him I can’t reach. A darkness that I can’t touch and that might be dangerous.
I feel guilty for thinking about leaving him. I feel guilty for thinking about my own safety. I feel guilty for feeling scared of the person I love.
I don’t know what to do.
I’ve spent nights lying awake, thinking: Am I overreacting? Am I imagining the danger? Or is this real?
I keep telling myself: he hasn’t hurt me. Not physically. Not yet.
But then I remember the cat. And the urges. And the way he described that pain in his chest.
I’m trapped. Between love and fear. Between loyalty and self-preservation.
I don’t know if leaving him would break him—or save me.
I don’t know if staying will destroy me—or him.
I just know that my heart feels like it’s being pulled apart in two directions.
And I can’t stop thinking… what if I wake up one day and it’s too late?
