I’m aware that, all justifications aside, what I'm doing is so far beyond acceptable that there's no coming back from it. But that part is getting smaller every day, drowned out by the obsession that's been growing inside me like a cancer, spreading through my thoughts and my dreams and every waking moment until there's nothing left but her.
I've never been like this before. Never felt this consuming need to possess someone, to know every detail of their life, to insert myself into their world even when they've made it clear they don't want me there. I've wanted women before, fucked them, forgotten them. I've had relationships that lasted months, even a year once, and when they ended, I moved on without looking back. I've killed people and felt less afterward than I feel now, sitting in my car watching a grainy feed of Svetlana taking off her coat and sitting on the edge of that terrible bed with her head in her hands.
I've wanted her for years. Thought about her, dreamed about her, imagined what it would be like to touch her and taste her and hear her say my name. And then I had her, finally, and it was better than anything I'd imagined—and worse and more complicated, because she gave herself to me out of anger and desperation, a need to reclaim something that had been taken from her, not because she wanted me specifically.
Not because she felt this same consuming need that's eating me alive from the inside out.
Once wasn't enough. Once was just the beginning, the first hit of a drug I didn't know I needed until it was coursing through my veins and rewiring my brain to crave nothing but more.
She's mine now. She has to be mine, because I can't go back to the way things were before. I just have no idea how to make her see that without getting myself killed in the process, without exposing what I've done and losing the only leverage I have to keep her safe.
I sit in my apartment with my laptop open and the feeds running on multiple screens. She doesn't do much. She doesn't go out except for necessities, doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't do anything that might draw attention. She's being smart about it, careful, and I'm proud of her for that even as I'm frustrated by how little I can see, how much of her internal world remains hidden from me despite the cameras I've installed.
I watch her sleep, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her pillow, and I wonder what she's dreaming about. I watch her stare at the ceiling for hours, and I wonder what she's thinking, if she's thinking about me at all or if she's already relegated me to the category of mistakes she'd rather forget.
All I can do is watch.
I quickly realize she's not eating enough. I see her go to the convenience store for food—crackers, instant noodles, cheap protein bars—but when I watch her in the room, she barely touches them. She'll open a package, eat a few bites, then put it away like the act of eating is too exhausting to continue. She starts to lose weight she didn’t have to spare, her face getting thinner, her collarbones more prominent, and the sight of it makes something twist in my chest that feels very close to panic.
She needs to eat. And she needs someone to take care of her, because she's clearly not capable of doing it on her own right now.
She needs me, even if she doesn't know it.
So I start making sure that she has food. I wait for her to leave and then drop bags of groceries in front of her door that have protein shakes and easy-to-heat meals that are actuallynutritious. I have prepared meals delivered to her that I think might tempt her. I leave coffee grounds from a fancy place downtown, and creamer.
She looks utterly confused when she finds the first delivery. She looks up and down the hallway like she's trying to figure out who left it, before taking it inside cautiously. She examines everything like she's checking for poison or tracking devices, and then—finally—she eats. Not much, but more than she's eaten in days, and the relief I feel is overwhelming in its intensity.
I leave more food the next day, and the day after that. She stops checking it so carefully, starts accepting it as something that's just happening, some strange kindness from the universe. She doesn't know it's me. I make sure of that, because if she did, she'd probably throw it away out of spite, or pride, or the simple fact that she told me she didn't want my help.
But she's eating now, and that's what matters.
I tell myself I'm doing this to keep her healthy, to make sure she survives long enough to figure out her next move. But the truth is, I'm doing this because I can't stand watching her suffer. Every moment of her pain, every tear she sheds, every night she goes to bed hungry feels like a personal failure on my part.
I feel like I’m going insane sometimes, watching her. I keep the feeds on whenever I can—at home, waiting for a meeting with one of Ilya's lieutenants about a shipment coming in from New York, any time that I can keep an eye on her. Most of the time, she’s just sitting there. Not doing anything, not moving, just sitting on the bed with her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, staring at nothing.
This is obsession, pure and simple, and it's consuming me in a way that nothing else ever has.
I've killed people without losing sleep. I've destroyed enemies and done things that would make most people sick to their stomachs, and I've always been able to compartmentalizeit, to separate my work from my life and maintain some semblance of normalcy. But this I can't compartmentalize. It's bleeding into everything, taking over my thoughts and my time and my priorities until there's nothing left but her and the desperate need to be close to her, to know what she's doing and thinking and feeling every moment of every day.
A few days later, I’m watching her from a distance on a sunny afternoon that’s finally starting to warm up. She’s at a shitty park near her motel, one that has plenty of people hanging out around it that I’d like to keep an eye on in case they get too close to her, but she’s not paying attention to any of them. She's also not just walking aimlessly like she usually does. She's stopping every few feet, raising something to her face, looking at things with a brightness I haven't seen from her in weeks.
It takes me a minute to realize what she’s doing: she’s taking pictures with a disposable camera, one of those cheap plastic things you can buy at a drugstore for ten dollars. She's taking pictures of the city, of buildings, streets, and small details that most people would walk past without noticing. A fire escape with plants growing on it. A mural on the side of a building. The way the light hits the pond in the early morning.
She used to love photography. I remember that from before, from the research I did on her when I first saw her at that party, and couldn't get her out of my head. She had a whole Instagram account dedicated to it, thousands of followers who appreciated her eye for lighting, comments from people asking what camera she used, and how she got her colors so rich and vibrant.
I remember noticing, after the warehouse, that the account stopped posting. I should have known something was wrong then.
But she's taking pictures now, with a disposable camera that will give her grainy, imperfect images that are nothing like the crisp digital photos she used to take. And the fact thatshe's doing it at all, that she's finding something to care about besides just surviving, makes my chest ache with an unfamiliar sensation.
Seeing her like this makes me…happy.
I want her to be happy.
I’m well aware that, as far as she’s concerned, there’s nothing I could do to ever contribute to her happiness. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. And when, a few days later, I realize that she’s getting sick, that feeling of panic returns.
She starts sleeping more, not getting out of bed, wrapping herself in blankets even though the room isn't that cold. By the afternoon, a day after, I notice she doesn’t seem to be feeling well, she's clearly feverish, her face flushed, and her movements sluggish, and when she finally drags herself to the bathroo,m and I see her leaning against the sink like she's about to collapse, I'm already in my car heading to the pharmacy.
I leave cold medicine, fever reducers, throat lozenges, tea, soup, everything I can think of that might help. I leave it outside her door like always, and I watch her find it and take it inside.
