That’s the part that still makes my chest tighten when I think about it.

It started small—offhand comments, little wrinkles of his nose, a casual, “Did you shower today?” said with a laugh that never quite reached his eyes. At first, I brushed it off. Everyone gets insecure sometimes. Couples tease each other. I told myself I was being sensitive.

But then it kept happening.

I started showering twice a day. Sometimes three if I’d been out. I kept deodorant in my purse, my car, my desk drawer. I brushed my teeth five times a day until my gums ached. I changed soaps, laundry detergent, fabric softener, toothpaste. I Googled symptoms at night, convinced something was wrong with my body that doctors had somehow missed.

No matter what I did, the look on his face never changed.

He pulled away when I reached for him. Stopped kissing me goodnight. Started working late even when I knew his workload was light. And every time I tried to talk about it, he’d sigh and say, “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”

So I kept trying harder.

Then one afternoon, everything snapped into focus.

I was folding laundry when I heard his voice from the kitchen. Low. Nervous. I paused in the hallway, basket heavy in my arms, not meaning to eavesdrop—until I heard my name.

“I can’t keep doing this much longer,” he whispered. “She’s not picking up on the hints.”

My heart started pounding.

At first, I assumed he meant my hygiene. I stood there, frozen, clutching that stupid basket like it could ground me.

Then he kept talking.

“I’ve tried everything,” he said. “The smell thing. Pulling away. Not being around much. I don’t want to hurt her. I just want out.”

The smell thing.

I felt numb, like the air had been sucked out of the house. My ears rang as the truth hit me with a clarity so sharp it almost hurt.

There was nothing wrong with me.

There never had been.

He was trying to make me feel like there was.