I don’t announce it.
I don’t recommend it to everyone.
But yes — this is what I read.

Dark romance.
Psychological stories.
Men who are dangerous on paper.

Not heroes.
Not saviors.
Not “green flags”.

Why?

Because fiction is a safe place to look into darkness.

I read about obsession —
to recognize it in real life.

I read about manipulation —
to never confuse it with love.

I read about killers and broken minds —
to understand how fear is born,
how control replaces connection,
how trauma twists desire.

These books don’t relax me.
They sharpen me.

After them,
I don’t tolerate chaos.
I don’t romanticize cruelty.
I don’t excuse emotional immaturity.

The darker the story,
the clearer my standards.

In real life I want the opposite:
calm voices,
predictable behavior,
a man who doesn’t scare —
but steadies.

Dark romance isn’t my fantasy.
It’s my contrast.

I don’t read it because I want danger.
I read it because I know exactly
how much I value safety.

And maybe that’s the most honest reason of all.