Im Yours and Youre Mine

"Most people think love is about compromise. They're wrong-it's about control, and I'm very good at it." I said and smiled to myself as William shook my hand as he set to leave my office. "Well, it looks like you've survived another session without me giving you too much homework. But don't worry-I'll make sure to assign some extra self-reflection next time... just kidding, sort of," I said, stretching out for a handshake. He laughed wholeheartedly as he replied; "I've been a good student after-all.

Perhaps my graduation is near." His laugh was like sunlight cutting through storm clouds-rare, fleeting, and something I would do anything to possess.

I tried not to stare at him too much as he walked out of my office, down the stairwell and into the busy streets. I stood at the window and watched as he hailed down a cab and got into it. He didn't even look up to see if I was watching him. For a moment, I felt bad. I sat back in my chair as I thought. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't paying that kind of attention to me. He would be doing way more than that; soon enough.

I picked up my phone and opened TikTok. I scrolled past a few videos-mindless dances, lip-syncing, the usual noise-and then I saw her post. Whitney. The best friend. The enabler. She was laughing in the video, holding a glass of wine, her perfectly manicured nails wrapped around the stem like it was a trophy for surviving another day of mediocrity. Her caption read: "Cheers to fathers who teach us how NOT to love!" A joke, of course, but one that cut deeper than she realized.

Whitney always knew how to twist the knife without getting blood on her hands. She was the kind of friend who turned pain into punchlines, encouraging poor, broken William to laugh at his wounds instead of healing them. A therapist's nightmare disguised as a support system. But Whitney isn't just a friend; she's a mirror William doesn't know he is looking into. The same daddy issues, the same need for validation wrapped in faux independence. They bond over their shared disdain for absent fathers while clinging desperately to partners who remind them of them.

I watch Whitney's face closely in the video-her smile doesn't reach her eyes. It never does. She's hiding something beneath that glossy exterior, something darker. Maybe she's not just enabling William; maybe she's feeding off her pain, thriving on it like a parasite disguised as a confidante. My mind flashes back at William's earlier today-his words echo in my mind: "Whit says I should just forget about him." Forget? No, Whit doesn't want William to forget anything. She wants William to stay broken because broken people are easier to control.

I tap on Whitney's profile and start scrolling through her posts. Each one is a breadcrumb leading me deeper into her psyche-a curated gallery of faux empowerment and subtle digs at William's insecurities. And then I see it: a photo from last week, Whitney and William at brunch, arms draped around each other like blood siblings. The caption reads: "Some people don't need dads when they have friends like me." Manipulation disguised as love-it's almost poetic.

Whitney thinks she's untouchable, but she doesn't realize how closely I'm watching. For William's sake, of course. Someone has to protect her from friends like Emily-the kind who smile while they sharpen their knives.

***

Yes. People have perfect families. The types that gather at the dining table every evening, plates full, stories flowing. They talk about their days-the good, the bad, the silly. No phones, no distractions. Just eye contact, laughter, and the comfort of knowing someone cares.

The parents know when to listen and when to offer advice. The kids joke around but still ask how each other did on their tests. There's always a favorite dish on the table, and always enough. Even when things go wrong, they find a way back to each other. The kind of scene that smells like home-like roasted chicken, warm bread, and safety.

I didn't have that. Not really. I'd tell myself it wasn't a big deal, that family dinners were just a cliché anyway. Dinner for me was usually quiet. Sometimes just me and a reheated plate, maybe a show playing in the background. But it never felt sad. It was just normal. I think that kind of silence taught me to pay attention-to little things, to emotions that didn't always get spoken out loud.

Maybe that's why I ended up studying psychology. I wanted to understand people-what they said, what they didn't, and all the messy stuff in between. I never needed the picture-perfect family. I just wanted to know how it all works.

***

The train hissed to a stop like it was tired too, and I stepped out into the station where the lights buzzed overhead, always just a little too bright. The platform was mostly empty-just a few people scattered around, heads down, walking like they had somewhere more important to be.

My footsteps echoed as I moved toward the stairs, the sound of them weirdly loud in the stillness. A gust of warm subway air followed me up, thick and stale, carrying that familiar underground smell-dirt, metal, something slightly burnt.

The city above was unusually quiet. Streetlights blinked on one by one, casting long shadows that seemed detached from their sources. I passed shuttered shops, a flickering neon sign, and a guy leaning against a wall smoking, not looking at anyone.

From my AirPods was playing Ordinary by Alex Warren. I had been following him and his wife's love story on TikTok. It was very cute. I hope to have something like that. I want something like that. But with William. My mind wandered to how we met.