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CUZ CAN

A few days later

The first crack of the plastic startles me, my pulse quickening as he holds the remote control in front of me, staring unblinking into my eyes. His fingers dig into the sides of the small rectangular device, pressing it until it begins to give way, bending under the relentless force of his grip. His knuckles whiten, and the remote disintegrates in his hand. I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. He just crushed it. Crumpled it almost as easily as if it was a piece of paper.

He’s strong, and the remote is no match for him.

It feels like this isn’t about the remote, though. It’s like he’s reminding me of how strong he is, how much more powerful he is than me.

My jaw drops, and I’m unable to hide the flicker of fear in my expression. My voice comes out distant, thin. “Why did you do that?”

He smirks, his eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. “Because you’re a fucking bitch…and because I can.” The words land heavy, sharp-edged, accompanied by a look of twisted amusement that tells me he enjoys this .

“Why am I a bitch this time?” I quirk a brow, glad the remote wasn’t me or my cat.

His face contorts with disgust, transforming him from a cute but angry surfer boy into something more sinister. Definitely not cute. Definitely not a surfer. Definitely not a boy. Angry, rageful, aging man. “Because you insisted on watching this fucking stupid show.”

The smirk lingers as he stands there with the broken remote in his hand, knowing he’s left me to deal with the inconvenience, the cost. The fact that I’ll have to replace something else that he chose to destroy on a whim, all because I wanted to watch something he didn’t. Just because he chose to have a mini tantrum, because he could. His tantrum has now become my problem, just the way he likes it.

I’ve never been around someone who just… breaks other people’s things all the time. And who seems to get some pure, vindictive joy over seeing something belonging to their supposed soulmate being destroyed. Of wasting the money they worked so hard to make.

And when he gets mad and destructive, he never damages his own stuff. He loses his own things with regularity. He’s gone through countless pairs of flip-flops and shoes and phones that he leaves behind here or there, usually while he’s drinking.

But in his fits of rage, he doesn’t seem to break his own possessions. No, it’s my things he targets. The items I’ve saved for, the things that mean something to me. Or just trivial things that still need to be replaced for day-to-day convenience—remotes, chef’s knives, chopping boards. They’re his chosen victims when he’s in a mood, like they’re tokens he can obliterate just so show he can.

It’s curious that his lack of self-control, his violent impulses that he’s unable to harness, are… quite selective.

Later, I go to text Paulo just to say hey, and I notice nearly all the contacts in my phone are missing .

“Babe? Did you do something to my phone?” I call out to him in the bathroom.

“What do you mean?” he asks, trying to act casual, but I hear a note of guilt in his voice.

“All my contacts are gone.”

“Oh, yeah. I deleted them all,” he says, nonchalantly, returning to the living room, scrolling through something on his own phone, a smirk on his face.

I furrow my brow. “Why the hell would you do that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You hurt my feelings and I was mad at you.”

I scrunch up my face, squeezing my eyes shut. How the hell does he so casually use the same excuse over and over again to justify the most bizarre behavior? “Timmy, you can’t just go into my phone and delete things. That’s really fucked up.”

“Well, you also made me get a new phone number, so I thought it was only fair for you to have all your contacts deleted.” His gaze meets mine, a curious gleam in his eye.

I’m furious. “Timmy, how could you? I didn’t make you do anything. Getting a new phone number was completely your idea, your suggestion. I never asked you to do that. You said yourself that you wanted to break contact with bad influences—sure, I appreciate that you did it, which I’ve told you already, numerous times. But now you’ve gone into my phone and deleted information on all my friends, so I can’t just text them. That’s just…” I can’t find the words.

“Oh well, you’ll survive,” he shrugs. “Besides, you don’t need them, anyway. You have me now.”

A few hours later, I jolt awake, a scream caught in my throat. My heart is pounding, my skin damp with sweat, the terror of the nightmare still clinging to me.

Because in that dream, which felt incredibly real, it wasn’t our sleek black remote that he crushed with his rage. It was my sleek black cat, Sabre. I see him there, his eyes wide with fear, pinned in the grip of those same cruel hands.

And in my subconscious, I can see the same cruel smirk twist his mouth, the same eyes glinting with the pleasure of hurting me, of stripping me of something I love.

And I realize it’s within him to do that to Sabre.

To me.

And I am terrified.

The thought paralyzes me. My heart races, and I lie in bed, staring into the dark, haunted by the realization.

These small displays of destruction, these casual demonstrations of power keep accumulating, each one chipping away at my sense of safety. He’s building a world of tension, an invisible fence around me. And I don’t know if I have the strength—or maybe the courage—to push back.

I glance at the TV, feeling sick. Even the shows I once found mindlessly enjoyable aren’t safe from his judgment. Just mentioning 60 Days In and Life After Lockup brings on a tirade. “I refuse to watch that depressing prison shit,” he snaps, his face scrunched in disgust. “My biggest fear is going to jail or prison. I just can’t do it. It’s too real. It gives me flashbacks.”

Okay, well, those are two more shows I can check off the list. I’m starting to run out of shows that he will allow me to watch without making me regret it. My choices are shrinking, the simple comforts I once enjoyed being removed one by one. Any reality TV, anything too sad, too dramatic, too fluffy, too Margaux chose it.

And then there’s his driving. When he’s calm, he drives with this easy confidence. But when he’s angry, he transforms into this other person entirely, someone who treats the road like his personal territory. He takes his aggression out on the wheel, swerving and weaving, tailgating with terrifying precision, jumping lanes when it’s risky to do so. And I feel like saying anything only makes it worse, makes him more reckless. When I glance over as he’s doing this, he just sets his jaw more firmly, his hands tightening on the steering wheel, his anger infusing every sudden swerve and acceleration. If I so much as suggest he slow down, I know he’ll only push it further, veering dangerously just to prove he’s in control.

Like he’s entitled to do that, even when it makes others feel unsafe.

Especially when it makes me feel unsafe.

More and more, it feels like he’s not in control of just the car.

He’s in control of me, how safe I feel. Whether I make it to our next destination.

And somehow, I’m the only one terrified of where this could all lead.