At first, it was a joke.
“You take up too much space.”
“You fidget too much.”
“You snore.”
Little comments, said with a smirk, a teasing nudge. I laughed along. It was normal, wasn’t it? Everyone had their little annoyances with their partner.
But then one night, she told me not to get in the bed at all. Just like that. No fight, no lead-up, just a casual statement.
“You can sleep on the floor.”
I thought she was joking.
She wasn’t.
I remember standing there for a second, waiting for her to change her mind. Waiting for her to roll her eyes, sigh dramatically, and say, “Fine, but stay on your side.”
She didn’t.
I tried sleeping in the armchair, but that wasn’t allowed either. “You’re not sleeping out here,” she said, barely glancing at me. “Go in the bedroom.”
It was a control thing. That much was obvious. I wasn’t allowed to be comfortable. I wasn’t allowed to choose.
So I made do.
I folded a blanket over a cushion and lay down on the floor beside the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Every night, I’d try to sneak onto the mattress, just for a little while. Just long enough to feel like I was still a person, like I still had some right to be there.
But she always woke up. Always shoved me off without a word.
I don’t know what was worse—being pushed away, or the fact that she didn’t even seem angry about it. Just irritated, like I was a dog that wouldn’t stay off the furniture.
Lying there, on the hard floor, I realised something.
It wasn’t about the bed.
It was about making sure I knew exactly where I belonged.
