Ownership without explanation.
Sometimes I wondered if that was the point.
Not to use me.
But to remind me that I didn’t belong to myself anymore.
That even my stillness wasn’t mine.
I set the makeup brush down.
My fingers lingered on it for a second longer than necessary.
Then I straightened.
Looked at myself one last time.
Held my own gaze.
Steady. Unflinching.
Then I stood.
The silk of the nightgown whispered softly against my thighs as I moved.
I moved toward the door, each step deliberate.
Paused at the threshold.
My hand lingered on the knob—an unconscious habit.
A shallow breath.
Then—I turned the knob.
And stepped into the corridor.
The house was silent.
Marble chilled my bare feet as I walked.
Every step sent a faint echo down the corridor, swallowed almost immediately by the vastness of the house.
I reached his door and knocked once.
“It’s open,” his voice came from inside.
I turned the handle, and pushed the door inward.
The room greeted me like always: dark, heavy, familiar.
I closed the door behind me with a quiet click.
A single lamp on the bedside table cast warm light across part of the room, leaving the rest in shadow.
Half of his face caught in gold, half swallowed by darkness.
Like he lived in two worlds at once.
