When Tyler asked me to move in, I thought it was a sign we were building a future. “Never been more serious about anything,” he said as we watched the sunset. I moved in with joy, decorating the apartment, cooking, and folding towels his way—feeling like part of a team.

Six weeks later, that illusion shattered. I opened the fridge and found an envelope: “Rent: $1,100. Comfort contribution: $75. Wear and tear fee: $40.” Tyler wasn’t joking. “This is what adults do. You contribute,” he told me. But I already had—emotionally, practically, daily.

Realizing he’d invited me to be a tenant, not a partner, I smiled and played along—then called my friend Jordan. When Tyler returned home to see Jordan moved in, I said, “The rent you’re charging is steep, so I decided to sublet.” He exploded, but I calmly replied, “You wanted a tenant, not a partner.”

I left, split the rent, and never looked back. “Comfort contribution?” my friends still laugh. Tyler taught me something priceless: real love doesn’t come with invoices.