She’d snatch my phone every chance she got.
Didn’t matter what I was doing—texting, scrolling, even just holding it. If she saw it, she’d take it. “What are you hiding?” she’d say, like there had to be something.
She’d poke around in it, reading my messages, checking who I’d called, scanning through my apps like she was looking for evidence of something that didn’t exist.
I learned not to react. If I snatched it back, she’d call me defensive. If I got angry, she’d say I was guilty. So I just sat there, watching while she went through everything.
It felt like I had no space to breathe. No privacy at all.
My phone wasn’t just a device anymore; it was a leash, and she held the other end tight.
Freedom? Forget about it.
Even when I had it in my hands, it didn’t feel like mine. Because at any moment, she could take it away.
