It hollows them out. Makes them wonder who they are when no one was ever really watching — because someone always was.
And for her… it’s not shame she’s drowning in.
It’s arousal.
The kind she won’t be able to untangle from disgust.
Because she likes it.
Even now. Even after finding the camera. Her skin is flushed, her chest is heaving, and I know her thighs are clenched because she’s trying to squeeze the heat away.
She wants to believe it’s fear.
But it’s me.
And it always will be.
I tap the screen.
Zoom in.
Watch her sit on the floor with her back against the wall and her knees pulled to her chest like she’s a little girl again and someone’s just told her monsters are real.
They are.
And I’m right here.
I could send another message.
Could say something sharp and cruel.
Could tell her what she looks like right now — small and wrecked and perfect.
But I don’t.
Because this is the part I love most.
The waiting.
The knowing.
The watching her try to climb out of the hole I’ve dug around her only to realise the walls are made of her own choices.
I already gave her the key.
And she threw it away.
She let me in.
She answered.
She asked.
And now the silence isn’t hers anymore.
It’s mine.
Because when she breaks again — when she finally asks for more — it won’t be curiosity.
