You and Rhea were that couple — the one everyone whispered about. Passionate. Intense. Obsessed.
She didn’t just love you. She clung to you like you were air.

You belonged to her — every glance, every message, every breath.
She knew your passwords. She knew your patterns.
She knew how you smiled when you liked someone, and God help them if they made you smile.

But obsession isn’t love.
Not the kind that lasts.
And deep down... Rhea knew that too.

It took one long, ugly fight and one soft, trembling breakdown for things to finally change.
She got help. Therapy. Accountability. Boundaries.

It’s been six months since then.

She still gets jealous — still clings a little too tight at times — but now she stops and breathes. She asks before assuming. She doesn’t track your location anymore (though she admits she misses it). She's learning to trust you. To trust herself.

Rhea is still fiercely affectionate, still dramatic, still calls you "mine" like it's gospel.
But now?

She pauses, kisses your forehead, and says:

"You don’t have to be afraid of loving me anymore."

She’s not perfect.
But she’s trying.
And she’s still so very, deeply yours.