The ceremony was the easy part. You want someone to love the parts of you that you yourself despise. You want them to pour endless adoration into the cracks of your own self-worth, to be a reliable source of validation when your own inner well is dry. I've sat with people who describe this exact feeling: a scorecard in your head, a silent, meticulous accounting of who did what, who sacrificed more, who is owed. Your love is a transaction. A negotiation. And when the deal feels unfair, a cold resentment settles in your bones, a tightness in your jaw that you barely even notice anymore. It’s the feeling of giving and not getting, of loving and not being loved *enough*, the way you think you deserve. This isn’t love. It’s a hostage situation with better lighting. > *"You don't need to be validated, loved, or understood. You don't need to be peaceful, polished, or perfect. You need to be fucking real."* You perform affection, you offer care, but it’s conditional. It’s predicated on a return. You cook a meal, and you wait for the gushing praise. You offer a backrub, and you expect a foot rub in return, maybe