Matt said, “Let me take care of you.” It sounded romantic—until we moved in and I realized “our home” meant his rules. While I was out buying lunch on move-in day, he shoved all my belongings into a hall closet. His reason? I pay the rent, so I set the rules.” T at’s when I realized—this wasn’t love. It was control. So I made a call. To his dad.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Reynolds walked in, slammed a dollar on the table, and told Matt: “Dance. I paid. That’s how it works, right?” The silence that followed said it all. I moved out that night. Now I live in a tiny studio that’s all mine. I pay my own rent, cook when I want, and answer to no one. Because love without respect isn’t love at all. And rent paid with strings? That’s just a leash.