I learned how to bury things early.
I learned how to survive pretty.
But I never learned how to un-want something that scares me.
And I want him.
I want his voice in my mouth. I want the press of his words against my throat. I want the way he looked at me — like I wasn’t something to flirt with, or fuck, or fix, but something to ruin. Carefully. Completely. Like he’s been designing my downfall for months and finally got the blueprint right.
And that should terrify me.
It does.
But terror isn’t simple anymore.
Because the panic flares in my chest like heat, and I know I should feel violated — but instead I feel… full. Watched. Like my skin is a spotlight and he’s in the rafters waiting for the cue.
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I drag myself up off the floor, grab my hoodie tighter around my body, and rip open the bathroom mirror cabinet like I might find answers between the vitamins and the Xanax.
I take one pill. Just one. I don’t like how they numb me. But I don’t trust myself right now.
Because part of me is already making excuses.
Maybe he guessed my name. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe I was just imagining the way the door locked and unlocked without him touching it. Maybe he just wanted to scare me and that’s the end of it.
But it’s not.
Because deep down I know.
I know when I’m being circled.
I’ve felt this before. Not with him. With the last one. The one who liked to wake me up by choking me, then called it foreplay. The one who said I was too loud, too sharp, too ungrateful for someone with stretch marks and a smart mouth.
But even he never made me feel like this.
Like prey in a glass tank.
Like something someone’s been feeding and fattening just to see how long I’ll last.
The air shifts.
I freeze.
Not because there’s a sound. There isn’t.
Not because I see anything. I don’t.
But because I feel it again.
That presence. That electric, invisible thread pulling tight across my chest like I’m wearing a collar I didn’t notice until it started to choke.
I turn slowly.
Eyes scan the apartment. No windows open. No doors ajar. No proof.
But something’s here.
