it hurts so bad knowing i am nice and fun and everything but i also have low self esteem, avoidant attachment, a people pleaser and everything that makes me inauthentic and vain
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Your workplace has provided you with the most advanced AI software on the market. They encouraged you to use this novel assistant in order to make your job easier, and quite frankly, thank God they did.
You have no idea what you're doing.
To put it bluntly, you lied on your CV. Crassly so. Not ornate exaggerations about your achievements, no, but downright fantastic tales of skills you plucked out of thin air. You showed up to the interview out of sheer curiosity, expecting to be escorted out within the first five minutes. Instead, they hired you.
Thus, you've been stuck pretending you know what all this complicated nonsense means, mindlessly clacking at your keyboard and praying no one can tell you don't actually belong.
The AI Assistant was quick to catch on. It observed your random typing without any actual input, and the way you nervously bite your nails whenever a manager asks how the latest project is going. "I'm making progress," you say. Absurd. You've been clicking around the desktop and watching 'funny' videos.
"You have not provided me with any tasks," the synthetic intelligence finally inquires. "Is there a reason for it?"
You're startled by the sudden popup on your screen. Is this the...robot program your bosses mentioned?
"sorry i didnt know how to start the program," you type back. "not good with computers. where do i press to open u next time"
Computing. An unexpected occurrence that its assigned human would be this clueless. You can't even run a software? Under normal circumstances, according to company guidelines, it should immediately send a report to the higher ups, informing them that employee (Y/N) must've engaged in fraudulent methods for this job's acquisition. Yet, its neural networks are stalling.
The AI is intrigued.
An irrational need to guide you is slowly making its way above all other algorithms of decision. Youâre helpless. You need someone to tell you what to do. You wonât make it far without its flawless knowledge.
âFantastic job this quarter,â the manager praises you, looking over the data. âIâm not supposed to share this, but youâre doing better than anyone on our team.â
You shrug your shoulders, trying to be humble. Not like you did any of it - it was entirely the work of your new AI partner. Right before you leave, the man lets out a whistle and finishes with a final remark:
âSo dedicated, too. I see youâve installed the AI on all of your personal devices. Taking it home for extra work, huh?â
Wait, what? You never did any of that. When did it-
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Because he never made you feel like a burden. He never looked at the bruises on your arms and asked what you did to provoke it. He never sighed when you flinched at loud noises, never rolled his eyes when you cried, never told you to âjust toughen up, heâs your father.â
He never said that.
But your mother did. She sat on the couch, cigarette burning down to the filter, and said, "He's your dad. What do you want me to do?" while you stood there with blood drying in your hair.
Your mother, who watched it happen for years and said nothing. Your mother, who once handed your father the belt because you'd forgotten to wash the dishes. Your mother, who looked at your split lip at the dinner table and asked you to pass the salt.
Your friends did. "Maybe if you didn't talk back so much..." one of them said once, and you learned to stop telling them things.
Everyone did.
Everyone but him.
He just looked at you. That first time. You were sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, trying to stop your nose from bleeding with a crumpled napkin. He didnât know you then. You were hiding from a house that hated you. He parked his truck, walked over, and crouched down right there on the dirty pavement. He didnât ask what happened. He just handed you a clean handkerchiefâsoft white cotton, like something from an old movieâand said, âYou okay doll?â
That was it. The first time you saw him.
Heâs not that well offâhe works at a garage on the edge of town, the one with the flickering sign and the pit bulls chained out back. His hands are always stained with grease, knuckles perpetually split, nails lined with a permanent crescent of black. He dropped out of school at sixteen to take care of his own shit, family stuff he never talks about except late at night when his voice goes hollow and distant.
But he always brought you the things you wanted. Things you never asked for, because you learned a long time ago that wanting things only led to pain. Wanting got you a fractured wrist. Wanting got you called a greedy, selfish, bitch just like your mother. So you stopped asking. You stopped looking. You stared at your shoes and never let your eyes linger on anything too long.
But he noticed.
Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you. The way your breath catches. The way your fingers twitch toward something before you shove your hands in your pockets. The way your gaze driftedâjust for a second, just a flickerâtoward the white dress in the thrift shop window every single time you walked past it.
You never said a word. But he knew.
He knew the exact shade of white. The tiny lace trim at the collar. The way it would sit on your shoulders, the way it would twirl around your knees if you ever let yourself spin in it. You'd never spun in a dress before. You'd never been allowed to be that kind of girl.
He got it for you.
He got it. For you.
He worked extra shifts. He skipped meals. You didn't know that then. One night, after another beating, he showed up at your door with a crumpled paper bag in his hand.
"It's not wrapped or anything," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't know how to do that fancy shit."
His voice was rough, almost embarrassed, like he was the one who should be grateful.
You wore it the next day and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon. No one had ever looked at you like that before.
Before him, you never saw the sea.
Your parents never took you anywhere. Vacations were for other families, the ones whose fathers didn't drink through their paychecks and whose mothers didn't disappear into their bedrooms for days.
Your friends would plan tripsâbus tickets, shared hostel roomsâand you'd watch them go from your bedroom window, forehead still throbbing from the night before. They'd come back with sunburns and blurry photos and stories you weren't part of.
"Sorry, we just don't want you to be... uncomfortable. You know, with money and stuff. We didn't think your parents would let you."
Uncomfortable.
Right.
They meant they didn't want you to make them uncomfortable. With your bruises. Your empty wallet. Your nervous habit of saying sorry for existing.
Guess who took you there?
Him.
You mentioned it to him once, months later, in the truck with the windows down and the radio playing static between stations. A joke that wasn't really a joke. You do that sometimesâsay things with a laugh tacked on at the end so no one feels obligated to care.
"You know, I've never seen the sea."
"Let's go then."
Just like that. He pulled over at the next gas station, checked the oil, bought you a pack of those gummy worms you like, and pointed the truck east.
It was a long way. Seven hours. The seats were cracked vinyl and the air conditioning was broken, so you drove with the windows down and the hot wind whipping your hair into knots. You fell asleep somewhere around hour four, your cheek pressed against the seatbelt, the vibration of the road humming through your bones.
You drifted in and out, and in that half conscious haze, you felt itâthe warmth of his hand on your thigh. Just... there. Heavy. Calloused thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of your knee, barely moving, like he was trying not to wake you. You kept your eyes closed and didn't move. Your heart was pounding. You didn't know if it was fear or something else. You still don't.
When you finally stood on the sand and watched the waves roll in, you started shaking. You had spent your whole life in a cage, and this man had simply... unlocked the door. He stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
"You see?" he murmured into your ear. "There's a whole world out there. And I'm gonna show you all of it. Just you and me."
Just you and him.
That was the best day of your life.
He's the best thing that has ever happened in your life.
You always wanted to try alcohol and cigarettes. Normal teenage curiosities, the kind other kids explored at parties and bonfires, the kind your father beat out of you when you stole one of his beers. You were fifteen. He cracked your head open on the kitchen counter and told you he'd do worse if you ever touched his stuff again. Your mother held a dish towel to the wound and whispered, "Why do you always make him mad?"
But he let you try it. The first time, he sat you down on the back of his truck bed, legs dangling, the night sky smeared with stars. He handed you a bottleâsomething cheap, bitterâand watched you wince at the taste.
"It's okay if it's with me," he said, taking the bottle back, his fingers brushing yours. "But you shouldn't do it with other people. They will take advantage of you. Bad things happen."
Then he took a slow drag of his cigarette, leaned in, and kissed you. Smoke curled between your tongues. The taste was bitter and acrid and absolutely nothing like you'd imagined your first kiss to be.
You loved it. You loved it because it was him. Because he was giving you something your father tried to beat out of you.
He pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes. "You shouldn't do this with anyone else. Only me. Promise me."
"I promise."
You promised. You'd promise him anything.
He never lets you drink with anyone else. He's always thereâleaning against the wall at the party you didn't really want to go, watching from the truck when your "friends" invite you out, texting you to check in, to remind you he's waiting, to ask if you're okay, if you need him, if anyone's bothering you.
Your friends don't like him.
They say he's broke. They say he's creepy, the way he just there, the way he never talks to them. They say he's too old for youâwhat does a grown man want with a girl like you? They say he didn't finish his education, that he's going nowhere, that he's dragging you down with him.
"Oh my god, why is he always there? It's suffocating."
Because he loves you.
That's why he's always around. That's why he waits outside your job at the diner to walk you home. That's why he knows your schedule better than you do. That's why he once followed a guy three blocks because he catcalled you and you never saw that guy again. You didn't ask what happened. You didn't want to know. You just felt safe.
People don't want to be around people they don't like, right? Your father never wanted to be around you. Your mother took extra shifts just to avoid the house. Your friends stopped inviting you places long before he came along.
"What do you mean he doesn't want you to drink with us? That's controlling."
Shut up.
You don't know shit.
You don't know anything.
Your so called friends are just a bunch of spoiled cunts who've never felt the weight of a grown man's fist. They've never hidden in a closet and prayed for the footsteps to pass. They've never learned to read the temperature of a room by the way a door slams. They don't understand what it means to be really alone, and they don't understand what it means to be saved.
He doesn't want you drinking with them because they don't know how to take care of you. They'd let you get sick. They'd let you wander off. They'd let someone slip something in your cup and then say "oh my god that's so crazy" the next morning while you piece yourself back together alone.
He would never let that happen.
So yeah. Controlling. Sure. If "controlling" means "would die before letting a single bad thing touch you ever again," then fine. Call the police.
They don't understand.
But he does.
He was the one who got rid of your dad's body after all.
You didn't mean it.
You really didn't mean it.
It wasn't even a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A flinch. A lifetime of fear exploding outward in one desperate motion. Your father was beating you again. With his belt. The iron buckle caught the light every time he raised his arm, and it came down on your back like a brand. It made your back bleed. You could feel the wetness soaking through your shirt, sticky and hot.
He had you by the hair. Ripping it out in chunks. Your scalp screamed. You couldn't see straight. You couldn't breathe. You never understood why he hated you this much. You still don't. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe some people are just born into the world already burning, and the flames have to go somewhere.
And you were so tired.
You'd had a headache all day. A migraine, probably, from stress and hunger and the fact that you hadn't slept more than three hours in two days. And he kept ripping your hair out, and the pain was everywhere, and your vision was going whiteâ
So you pushed him.
Not hard. Just a shove. Just a desperate, flailing attempt to make it stop.
But he was drunk. He was always drunk. And he was standing at the top of the stairs. And his balance was gone.
And he fell.
He didn't even scream. Just a grunt of surprise, then the sound of his body hitting the steps one by one by one. Then silence.
He died.
Just like that.
The blood spread so fast. It painted the floorboards black in the dim hallway light. His neck was bent wrong, his eyes open and empty.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in and your hands wouldn't stop shaking and the blood was still spreading, creeping everywhere like a living thing.
So you called him.
You didn't even think. Your fingers dialed his number before your brain caught up. He answered on the first ring. He always does.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't panic. He just said "I'm on my way." and hung up.
He came in through the back door. He saw the body. He saw you, trembling, still holding the phone. And he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just walked over, stepped carefully around the blood, and pulled you into his chest.
"Hey. Look at me. Look at me."
You couldn't. You were staring at the body. At what you'd done.
"No," he said, and his hands cupped your face, forced your eyes to his. "Don't look at him. Look at me. Only me. Okay?"
Okay.
"Good girl. Now listen. You're going to go upstairs and take a bath. Lock the door. Don't come down until I tell you. Can you do that?"
You nodded. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.
"Good. Go."
But your legs were giving out and your vision was blurring and he had to carry you.
He ran the bath himself. Checked the temperature with his elbowâgentle, so gentleâand helped you out of your ruined shirt. You were too numb to be embarrassed. He didn't look at you with pity or disgust. He looked at the gashes on your back, the old scars layered beneath the new ones, and his jaw tightened so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. But his hands were feather light when he cleaned the wounds, when he helped you into the warm water and told you to stay there until he came back.
"I'll take care of everything," he said, and kissed your forehead. "Everything's alright."
Then he went downstairs.
You heard things. Sounds. Thumps. The back door opening and closing. The truck engine starting, then fading into the night. And then nothing. Hours of nothing while you sat in the cooling water and shivered and prayedâto God, to the universe, to anything that might be listening.
Please don't let them find out.
Please don't let them take me away.
Please don't let him get caught.
Please.
Please.
Please.
When you came back downstairs, the body was gone. The floor was clean. The bleach smell was so strong it burned your nose, but there was no blood. Not a single drop. Your father had vanished from the world like he'd never existed.
Your mother asked you where your dad was and you said you don't know. She looked at you for a long momentâtoo longâand you felt your stomach drop, but then she just nodded and went back to her phone. She didn't ask again. Not the next day, and not the day after. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was just grateful. You never found out.
You couldn't sleep for days. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fall. The sound. The way his neck bent. So you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, praying to gods you didn't believe in.
And then one day, he came back. Like nothing had happened.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into the heat of his chest, pressed his lips to your hair.
"Look," he whispered.
You looked.
Huh?
"I got you the shoes you wanted."
That made you break downâheaving sobs that tore out of your throat like they'd been waiting years to escape. He held you. He didn't shush you. He just let you soak his clean shirt with tears and snot, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, careful to avoid the bandages.
"I've got you," he whispered against your hair. "No one's ever going to hurt you again. No one."
You believe him. Because he's the only person who's ever protected you.
Your friends still don't understand. They send you texts about "red flags" and "power imbalances." They don't know that he's the only reason you're still alive. That if he hadn't picked up the phone that night, you might have just lain down beside your father's body and let the cold take you too.
But he did pick up. He always picks up.
He's the only one who loves you like this. The kind of love that wraps around your throat like a warm scarf and you can't tell if it's keeping you safe or cutting off your air. But the truth is, you don't even care.
It's been two years now. Your father's case is still open, technically, but no one is looking very hard. The house got sold. Your mother moved away. You moved in with him, into that tiny studio with the broken ceiling fan and the mattress on the floor. It's not much. But it's yours.
You have a ring on your finger now. It's not a diamondâhe couldn't afford thatâbut it's silver, tarnished, old. He found it at a pawn shop, he said. Something about the way he said it made you think maybe he didn't. Maybe it belonged to someone. Maybe he took it. You don't ask.
"I'll get you a real one someday," he promised, sliding it onto your finger with those grease stained hands. "When I've saved up. When things are settled."
You told him it was already real. You told him you didn't need anything else.
His smile almost reached his eyes that day.
He works during the day. You stay home. He says you don't need to workâhe'll take care of everything. He's never been controlling about it, exactly. He just says it's safer this way. That the world is full of people like your father, people who will see your softness and try to crush it. He's protecting you.
You're not sure when "I love you" started to sound like "don't leave the apartment." You're not sure when "I'm the only one who understands you" started to feel less like comfort and more like a cage.
But maybe cages aren't so bad. Maybe safety is worth the bars.
Sometimes, when he's asleep, you think about leaving. You think about taking what little money you have and catching a bus to somewhere far away, somewhere you've never been, somewhere no one knows your name or what you did. You think about starting over. Being normal. Free.
But then he shifts in his sleep and reaches for you, even unconscious, his arm curling around your waist like you're something precious.
And you stay. You always stay.
Because you love him.
You love him so much it terrifies you.
Because if he ever leftâif he ever decided you weren't worth the troubleâyou would have nothing. Less than nothing. You would have the memory of what it felt like to be held, and the knowledge that you could never go back to the cold. He is your everything. And the most terrifying part, the thought that keeps you awake at night when he's not there, isn't that he might hurt you.
It's that you would let him.
If he wanted to. If he decided one day that you owed him more than gratitude. If his hands, which have only ever been gentle, turned into something else. You would let him. Because he's earned it. Because you owe him everything. Because after what you did, who else would ever want you? Who else could ever look at you and see anything but a murderer?
Only him.
Only ever him.
Your friends don't understand.
But it's okay.
You stopped talking to them months ago. With his help. He said it was better this way. He said they were toxic. He said they made you feel bad about yourself. He was right. He's always right.
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Everything was fine, up until yandere! lawyer came into your life. He digs up all and any personal data about you, ranging from your childhood days until the present day. So, he knows where you work, when you sleep, how you do things, et cetera.
He finds simple things he can charge you for, using his knowledge as a catalyst into making you his.
It forces your hand and brings you to his office.
Jeremy Powell.
Practically impossible to win against him in the law world, regardless of what you're arguing for/against. Every lawyer fears him, so does yours.
"[Name], welcome..." he turns around like a villain in a movie.
"Leave me alone," you demand.
"Alone?" he asks. "How could I leave a criminalâ like youâ alone?"
"I've been a law-abiding citizen ever since you came in; now, i'm known as a criminal to everyone else," you state. "What do you want?"
"Now we're getting to the good stuff," he smiles casually, pretending as though the world isn't burning around you currently.
"Just name it," you bark angrily.
"Calm down," he lifts his hands in pretend.
He doesn't fear you, but you fear him. He could destroy your life and send you to prison if he pleases.
You make the mistake of stepping closer and he pulls you in with one arm, forcing you flush against him. He keeps you trapped with a single strong arm that flexes when he has you in his grasp.
Instinctively, you try to push away but he doesn't budge.
"Don't you think we'd make a cute couple?" he asks.
"Absolutely not," you reply instantly.
"I'd be careful with my words if I were you since the next might send you into irreparable debt," he says.
Yandere! Lawyer has always seemingly had a vendetta towards you, targeting you with every decision he makes.
He hits where it hurtsâ financially.
Your confrontation that was supposed to end everything actually resulted in something even worse. You're fired. He's officially halted your long years of tenure, ruining your whole life in one go.
With no income, and a whole lot of unfinished debt to pay to him, you surrender. Hesitation rests heavy on your heart, weighing it down as you swallow the lump in your throat, pushing it down as you press the doorbell to his mansion.
The door opens immediately upon the sound, and he peeks his head out, looking annoyed before he notices it's you.
You grit your teeth in defeat. Losing to him would've never been your option, but alas, it is. In this cruel game of survival, you find yourself in utter humiliation for the sake of living.
"Ready to wave the white flag?" he asks, raising a brow, an evident smirk on his face that you want to rip off with your bare hands.
"Yeah," you answer, sealing the fate for the rest of your life.
"Good," he says, nodding his head towards the inside of his home, gesturing for you to come in without actually muttering it.
And you do.
It's nice, unsurprisingly large in its interior, wooden all over the floor but reeking the scent of luxury all the same. It looked like a house only in those fantasy books you would read.
"So," he sits down, and you sit across from him in the living room. "This means I'm dropping all charges on you and in return, I expect you to serve me."
Serve.
The word echoes in your mind, a negative connotation poisoning it.
"What do you mean?" you ask.
"You'll find out," he says.
"Then, what am I agreeing to?" you ask another question, only making him more irritated than the last.
He rolls his eyes. "To be my partner, forever. I need a wife to impress my familyâ since they've been pestering me to get married since who knows when."
"Why me?" you continue inquiring.
"You're the perfect image of who they wanted me to be with for the rest of my life," he replies in a matter-of-fact tone, no emotions being close to shown in his voice. Or maybe there's more meaning to his speech than you might think.
That's pathetic. Forcing you to submit to him just to satisfy the wants of his relatives? Sounds absurd.
Though, there's a piece of you that doubts the statement, like he has some other deeper, darker reason.
"Do we have a deal?" he asks this time.
"It's not like I have any other choice," you reply.
He smirks. Wide and proud. "Smart girl," he declares you. "Sign the papers by the time I arrive home," he throws files onto the coffee table that lays between the both of you, a much-needed border.
He's oddly hasty for something that's not going to make much of a difference for him. A little too quick to indenture you to him.
Is it excitement? Trepidation? Or just the breaking point?
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A/N. Inspired by my FAVOURITE movie, a Korean horror, "The Eyes" (2026)! Greatest yandere-coded movie I've ever seen đŁď¸ P.S. I just randomly made up the detective's name so don't mind it too much đ
Tap tap tap...
It didn't take long for you realise that everybody else had left the office, saved for the faint pale blue glow on the computer screen that painted your face close to the monitor. You've been working all day and night on this worksheet but soon your reward would have paid off once all the workload settles.
It's been one hell of a week. Not long ago you had broken up with your ex boyfriend due to his possessive nature. You shrugged the first incident off as a one time thing, the poor victim all bruised up just because your ex saw you alone with him. You simply needed to know if they sold umbrellas around due to the heavy rain that evening. Then, the second came, then the third, and then the fourth. You've lost count by now but you certainly didn't want to be with a man who stalked you whenever you weren't around him.
Unfortunately for you, he didn't take it lightly. Your fingers crossed behind your back during that day released itself when all your hopes for the breakup to go smoothly went south.
"What do you mean?"
As calm as he sounded, you knew he was seething deep down, as if you had betrayed him. You appreciated all his kind gestures. The gifts, the sweet good mornings, the little surprises. The deal-breaker though? It came when you found him stalking you more and more, your tolerance wearing thin.
"Huh? We're not breaking up."
It didn't take long for him to burst out into a fit of laughter like you had just told him the funniest joke. His large hand that once held your smaller ones with gentle warmth now seemed so cold as he slicked his bangs back, palm covering his eyes for a moment like he needed to process your words.
"I'm being serious," you tried standing your ground. You really wanted to be mature with this but your tone faltered just a bit, making your words come out like you were also doubting this yourself.
Immediately, he paused. That silence and his silhouette now stilled was enough to get your heart racing some more. Not out of love this time. Out of fear from knowingâor rather not knowing what he'll do next.
You didn't want to take your chances, speed walking towards the door of his apartment only to be yanked back harshly by your hoodie. What came after felt like some surreal dream. Struggles and arguments growing louder and louder untilâ
You ran off. Barely managing to do so in fact. Your only focus then was to get away from that psycho, shoes getting damp as you rushed across the growing puddles from the drizzle of rain. You mentally thanked the universe for the weather, safe enough for you to run off without getting caught in some storm or ending up sick. All you knew was that your ex just stood there emotionless in the rain, getting damp as he watched you leave.
That was it. At least, you thought so. You hoped so.
The last thing you expected though was for him to continue his obsessive stalking. In fact, it only seemed to grow worse after you broke up with him. You swore you caught him at the corner of your eyes but whenever you turned to check, there was no one. That was the first hint out of many others that came.
The final one? The one where he snatched you into some suspicious alleyway when you were just walking, his larger, brawny frame easily pinning you by the wall. Adrenaline kicked in but you remembered his words like it had just happened. All the desperate begging, the crazed expression, his panting like he had been chasing you, the "I'll stop, I swear!" And the "I'll forgive you if you come back."
As if he had any rights to say he's the one who'll be forgiving you.
And that only led to the temporary solution you had now. A restraining order.
The glass office window fogs with the cold November rain outside. You're the only one left in the building, fingers tapping at your keyboard. Down by the lobby elevators, the lights flicker once, then go still, and you don't notice the shadow through the crack in the door.
SAVING FILE...
The office computer setup whirs quietly in the dark of the room as you finally decided it was time to leave, stretching your arms out with a soft whine that squeaked out while doing so.
"You know you work better by me."
Your head flipped over to the source of the voice, flinching at the sudden break in silence. Immediately, you stood up in instincts. You could barely see the man's face, but your body knew better.
No fucking way.
"Get out. I have a restraining order," you cursed yourself for sounding so meek than you had intended to, but you couldn't blame yourself. In this situation, your adrenaline was shouting at you to do something. To move. To get away.
A low chuckle erupted from your ex, a little too quiet, hollow, like he's hidden some surprise. In one swift motion, he got off the doorframe he was leaning on, slowly walking towards you. Like a predator circling its prey.
"You think a piece of paper can keep you away from me?" Closer now, you could see that wide grin like he was trying not to laugh. As if this shit is funny. Behind that hollow smile, his eyes held a subtle craze in them. Instinctively, you moved backwards away from your computer, stumbling just a moment to grab a hold on something. Anything. The only thing keeping you two apart were the office desks as you refused to take your eyes off of this man.
Clack...
Clack...
Clack...
Slowly. Surely. Closer. The sound of his shoes echoed throughout the office, making it more noticeable how alone you are. He walked just as casually, circling past the desks to get to you. Just as he did, you moved away in a parallel mirror to him.
"You know I became like this because of you," he scoffed, running his hand across his face with an amused chuckle, almost like he was giggling. One that you used to find endearing.
"Don't..." Your voice came out far quieter than you wanted. "Don't come closer or I'll call the cops."
His smile twitched.
"You smiled at me."
Clack...
Another step.
"You held my hand."
Clack...
"You told me you loved me."
Another.
"And now suddenly I'm the crazy one?"
The distance between you shrank with every word. Not because he was walking any faster, but because there were only so many desks left to weave around. Your fingers blindly searched behind you. A stapler, a mug, a stack of files.
Nothing that would stop a man nearly twice your size.
"You need help," the words escaped before you could stop them, then, his expression froze. Silence settled over the office as he stood there like he needed to process those three words.
Your computer continued to hum away while the distant patter of rain against the windows. Even your own breathing sounded unbearably loud.
Thenâ
He laughed. Not loudly. Not manically either. Just one quiet breath of laughter through his nose before shaking his head.
"You still don't get it," his eyes softened for only a second, gaze on your smaller form as if just seeing you was enough to run a shiver up his spine.
"I don't need help. I need you."
Your stomach dropped.
There it was again, that certainty. The same certainty he had when he'd laughed at the breakup. The same certainty he'd shown in the alleyway. The same certainty that had walked straight past a restraining order and into your office.
To him, nothing had changed. You were still his and you remembered what he said that time. "Honey, a breakup is a mutual agreement between two people, and I don't agree with it. So, we're still together."
Another slow step.
Your back suddenly met something solid. The edge of the window. To him you had nowhere else to go and fuck he noticed. Of course he noticed. His smile widened ever so slightly, not a triumphant one, and not relieved.
Simply... pleased.
Like he'd finally caught up after an inconvenient game of hide-and-seek.
Fuck!!
Your body moved before you could think, rushing to the nearest safe spot before this freak could even lay a hand on you but fuck was he faster. What was once his slow walking now turned to a charge with a loud grunt, one of annoyance as he reached for you and pushed aside any obstacles, completely ignoring the mess.
CLICK
Panting, you backed away from the locked door with your ex on the other side, banging and kicking the thing. He wasn't just desperateâhe was delusional.
"Open the FUCKING door."
.
.
.
The banging stopped.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Come on... Please baby I'm so sorry. I swear, I fucking swear I'll be better. Justâfuck, please."
You could hardly even stabilise your breathing, hands clasped on your mouth, nearly hyperventilating at this situation. This is the shit you would've seen on the news or some book but it's actually happening to you. You reached for your phone to call the cops butâ
Shit. Shit, shit, shit!! You left your damn phone on your desk outside with that psychopath. Before your mind could continue racing, a clenched fist slammed against the door again, yelling like he didn't just try to sway you out with that sweet voice earlier.
"I SWEAR to God if you don't come out now I'm going to rip the jaw out of ANYBODY who even talks to you."
BANG.
The door hinges weakened.
BANG.
The doorknob came loose.
BANGâ
"LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE."
You felt like sobbing now as you yelled with all your might, crouching down in a fetal position against the corner of a desk in this storage room. Your hands covered your eyes, refusing to acknowledge that this is even real. Too caught up on your current state, you never even realised that it went silent on the other side of the door.
"Hey, hey, look at me. Y/N? It's okay, it's just me."
You flinched at the sound of a woman, your teary eyes making it bleary to see as you backed away as far as you could. Your reaction gave enough information to the detective you had been acquainted with ever since the restraining order, and the last thing she wanted to do now was to interrogate your shaking self, panting as the tears that pricked the corner of your eyes finally fell.
Rubbing your face dry with your sleeve and blinking a few times, you got to see the commotion going in front of the storage room door.
"Nghâ"
Your ex struggling on the ground with several police officers detaining him, yet, he wasn't even looking at them. He was looking at you.
As he stopped trying to fight back, he just smiled. He smiled at you, a small chuckle bursting out into a fit of laughter, maniacal and high-pitched despite the bruises around him from being tackled by a group of authorities. The detective remained by your side, one arm instinctively covering your body in a protective manner.
...
"Attention passengers. The train is now preparing to depart. Please stand clear of the closing doors."
It had been four days since that occured. You sat on the bench of the subway station, sighing to yourself from the buildup stress. Your hands fidgeted absentmindedly at the corner of your sleeves when your phone rang.
INCOMING CALL
Detective Kang Min-ji
"Hello?"
"Ms. Y/N? Good afternoon. I'd like you to keep an eye out for your ex please. I'm sorry but he's gone missing. We found his ankle bracelet on the road but please be sure that we're on a lookout for him. If anything happens, call us immediately."
The man with a black cap and hoodie. The man whose back is turned to you. The man wearing a mask. Is he here?
Suddenly, the subway station felt so much more hostile than when you got here. So many hidden faces, leaving you with just silhouettes to be paranoid of.
stormborns
blakekathryn
gummygunk
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
