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Because sometimes he isn't human; sometimes it feels like he's one step up on the food chain and you've been looking particularly tasty lately.
There's a term in biology called "surplus killing," and it refers to predators that kill prey with absolutely no intention of eating it.
Someone with this mental illness may be a pathological liar and manipulative, showing emotions only when it is helpful to do so.
He was handsome, undoubtedly, but his presence was something more than his externality.
He never skipped a beat, and our dialogue hurdled in a million different directions. I assured myself I was a cool girl and I didn't mind when he didn't call when he said he would, when he didn't text for days, when he made plans and then fell off the face of the earth. The minutes, hours, days between our communication drained the world of its color.
No area was off limits; there was nothing we didn't have in common, no books we hadn't both inhaled, no movies we hadn't both adored, no music that hadn't gotten both of us through our emotionally-stunted childhoods. I felt addicted to his conversation; I felt addicted to his attention. The intensity, the devotion, the electricity -- everything fell into place, and I could see the whole of our future painted in bright, vibrant lights. He said just enough to keep me there, dangling by a thread -- and I was unraveling.
He told me he loved me 10 minutes into our first date.
Yes, looking back, it should have been a sign, but I was distracted by his straight teeth and crooked smile.