I don’t feel real anymore.
I feel like a ghost trapped in a house that’s already burnt down, the smoke still curling around my ribs every time I inhale. I feel like a scream no one heard. Like a girl they forgot to save.
I lie on the floor for hours.
Or minutes.
Time doesn’t work the same here. Not when he’s not in the room. Not when his voice isn’t pulling me back from the edge, just so he can shove me over again with a smirk and a whisper I’d sell my soul to hear.
I thought I was stronger than this.
Strength means nothing when you start to miss the chains. When silence starts to sound like punishment and his cruelty feels like oxygen. He broke me so beautifully, so slowly, that I didn’t even realise I was begging to be shattered again just to feel his hands piecing me back together.
I stare at the camera in the corner of the room.
I know he’s watching. I hope he is. Because I want him to see what he’s done. I want him to choke on it. I want him to suffer.
But more than that?—
I want him to come back.
The truth hits like a slap. It coils through my gut like poison, burning slow and bitter.
I don’t just want to kill him anymore.
I want to need him.
And that terrifies me more than any of the things he’s ever done.
So I do the only thing that makes sense in this unravelling reality—this world he’s painted in shadows and ruin and whispered commands that make my knees ache.
I crawl.
Not towards the door.
Not towards freedom.
But towards the bed.
And I wait.
Because I know him.
And if there’s one thing Hook hates more than defiance—it’s surrender.
I’m giving it to him now, in the cruellest way.
On my terms.
With my eyes open.
Bleeding for him in all the ways I swore I never would.
I stretch out across the bed like I’m made of silk and venom.
Every move is slow. Deliberate. A performance stitched together with the ruins of what he’s left me. I arch my back just enough to taunt the shadows. Let my shirt ride up just enough to make him wonder if I’m doing it for me—or him.
The truth?
