He speaks like he’s been here before.
Like this isn’t obsession — it’s routine.
Like girls like me always break the same way.
I push off the counter, pacing in slow circles across the kitchen floor like movement will fix something, like I can walk it out of me, like I can stretch far enough to peel him from my bloodstream. I want to scream, but it won’t come out. I want to throw something, but nothing feels heavy enough.
I check my phone again.
No new message.
He doesn’t need to say more.
He already said everything.
I didn’t do anything.
You came apart all by yourself.
And he’s right — because I can still feel the heat between my legs and the sting in my eyes and the truth of it all twisting around my throat like barbed wire laced in silk.
I’m not afraid of him.
I’m afraid of what I’ll let him do to me.
I’m afraid of what I’ll beg for.
Of how far I’ll let it go before I finally pull away — if I ever pull away.
Because something tells me I won’t.
Something tells me he knows the exact moment I’ll stop fighting.
And maybe I already have.
I walk into the bathroom again, stare at my own reflection in the mirror.
I look like a girl pretending to be in control.
Pink lips. Gold hoops. Oversized hoodie to hide the fact that I haven’t eaten all day. Dark circles under my eyes like war paint. Pretty, if you don’t look too close.
But my pupils are blown.
My throat is red.
And my hands won’t stop shaking.
I turn the tap on and splash cold water against my cheeks. It doesn’t help. I grip the sink until my knuckles ache. Until I can feel my nails digging into porcelain. Until my breath steadies just enough to pretend.
But I can’t pretend when I turn and see the door.
Not just the door.
The corner.
The camera.
It’s hidden so well I would’ve never noticed if I weren’t looking for it.
