The devil reached me the moment I stepped into that relationship. Not with horns or fire, but with whispers—soft and convincing, twisting love into something I could barely recognize. He sat with me in silence, while I smiled through the pain, while I held in every scream, while I wondered if I was really loved or just… convenient. He made me think foolish things, planting doubts like seeds in my mind: “They don’t love you.” “They’re just using you.” “Once they get what they want, they’ll leave.” And I believed it. I believed it so much, I started to hide. I kept my pain buried in a quiet corner of my soul and built walls so high even I couldn’t climb out. I watched them hurt me without ever noticing they did, and still, I stayed. Still, I made excuses. Still, I hoped they’d see how much I was bleeding behind my calm replies and fake smiles. I started doing things— things I knew were wrong. Acting out. Shutting down. Apologizing for things I didn’t understand, looking for a reaction, wondering if they’d say, “That’s not okay.” But no one ever did. And it hurt. Because deep down, all I wanted was for someone to stop me, to teach me, to say, “That’s not love.” But no one taught me how to love. No one told me that love shouldn’t feel like breaking yourself into pieces to make someone else feel whole. No one warned me that when they left, they’d take parts of me with them— pieces I’ll never get back. So here I am, with silence in my chest and a storm in my mind, trying to unlearn the lies I mistook for truth, trying to forgive myself for not knowing better. Because the devil didn’t come to take my soul. He came to confuse it— and for a while, he succeeded.