Kia

 no one tells you how hard it is to stand in the middle of a battlefield, fighting for the wrong person. Her POV: They say love is supposed to make you feel alive, but no one tells you how it can slowly drain the life out of you. I sat by the fire, my arms folded tightly across my chest. Not just to stay warm, but to keep myself contained. If I rubbed my arms too much, if I shivered too noticeable, he might notice. And if he noticed, he’d find a way to make it my fault. His arm rested on the back of my chair, a lazy, possessive gesture that said “she’s mine.” Not in a way that makes you feel protected. But in a way that makes you feel owned. Across from me, he sat with his guitar, his fingers brushing the strings, though he wasn’t playing. I didn’t want him to know how bad it was. How I spent more nights crying than I did sleeping, how every word out of my mouth had to be carefully measured, because one wrong step could set everything on fire. My boyfriend stood suddenly, and my body tensed before my mind could catch up. Was I fidgeting too much? Had I missed some invisible line he’d drawn? But he walked toward the cooler, and I forced myself to breathe. He was just getting another beer. Across the fire, his fingers stopped grazing the strings. He was watching me, he could see right through the carefully constructed calm. I cracked a joke to break the tension. But then he asked “are you cold?” I froze, my heart pounding. If I said yes, and my boyfriend came back to see me wrapped in someone else’s kindness, I knew exactly how it would go. He’d wait until everyone left. Then he’d lean in close, his voice low and venomous, and the fight would spiral from there. I could’ve gotten a blanket myself. That would’ve been the simplest thing. But even that wasn’t safe. So I did what I always do. I smiled. Calculated, careful. “No, not really,” I said, even as my fingers itched to rub my arms, but his eyes stayed on me --