He’s here.
Even if it’s just in my head.
Even if it’s only in the places he’s already carved out.
I should call someone.
But who?
Who the fuck do you call when the man watching you is too careful to leave fingerprints, and too rich to ever face a consequence?
Who do you run to when the devil wears a suit and tells you he’s not here to fuck you — he’s here to own you?
I grab my phone from the couch, hands shaking, screen cracked, battery low. I scroll to the last number. The one I deleted.
It’s still gone.
But I know he left it.
I know he wanted me to see it. And I did.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
So I do the worst thing I could possibly do.
I open my texts.
And I write:
What do you want from me?
My thumb hovers.
One second.
Two.
Then I hit send.
And just like that, I give him permission.
The second the message sends, I regret it.
Not because it’s wrong.
Because it’s real.
Because it feels like kneeling. Like offering him the leash and pretending it wasn’t already wrapped around my throat. Like saying, Here. Do it again. But slower this time.
I stare at the screen, expecting nothing.
He doesn’t reply.
Of course he doesn’t. That would make it easy. That would make him a man.
He’s not a man.
He’s a fucking storm waiting for the right moment to break everything I’ve tried to build back.
