folina

Right?

He’s counting down the days immediately. Obsessively checking all your social media accounts for updates as if you were the idol instead, wondering whether or not you’d come to see him.

He’s literally kicking his feet and squealing. Of course you would. You love him too, don’t you? Not in the way he loves you, but you’d get there, once you meet him and speak to him in person. He just knows it.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who goes crazy with his skincare and his haircare and his workouts and his diet — all in preparation for the big day. How could he ever face you if he doesn’t look perfect? He’d simply die of shame.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who doesn’t sleep a wink the night before the event. His racing thoughts keep him up, thousands upon thousands of imagined scenarios flitting throughout his head. What if he confessed to you then and there? Prostrated himself at your feet? What if he ‘accidentally’ bumped into you in the hallway? Orchestrated one of those “meet-cute”s that you love so much? The possibilities were endless.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who is an anxious mess during the event itself. He’s constantly glancing at the queue, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, completely neglecting the other fans sitting in front of him at the moment. His body is running on autopilot — smile unwavering, responses warm and polite — but his attention is solely fixed on finding you.

When you walk through those doors and catch his eye, he starts smiling so hard he genuinely looks as if he’s gone insane. He has a pretty face though, so he looks good no matter what he does. As you shuffle through the queue, he never takes his eyes off of you, not even once. He wonders if you noticed. You probably did, from the way you kept glancing back to look at him.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose hands can’t stop shaking when it’s finally your turn to speak to him. His signature is so jerky, and his script looks close to illegible as he hastily scrawls his number underneath his name.

However, you don’t notice, for the rest of his demeanor is flawless, and you are too preoccupied with making small talk with him to pay attention to what he’s doing with his hands. You hardly have the time to exchange three sentences with him before you have to make space for the next fan, anyway.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose anxiety goes into overdrive. What if you can’t read his writing? What if you think it was a joke? What if you don’t text him? What if you think he’s weird? Did he act too stiffly? Were his responses normal enough? Was his smile too creepy? Did he look too eager? What if, what if what if —

He’s literally going insane. He can’t even pull out his phone and check your posts to see your true thoughts about him right now. He’s dying. He’s drowning. Is this what suffocating feels like? There’s bile clawing up his throat, poison surging through his veins —

He shoots to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. Excusing himself, he says he isn’t feeling too well. He bolts out of the convention hall.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who runs and runs and runs — until he runs into you.

You’re already in the parking lot, halfway to your car, and the resulting scene could come straight out of a rom-com.

“Wait!” he calls. It comes out sharp. Desperate. “Y/N!”

You turn around. Brows raising high the moment you realise who it is.

He scrambles up to you breathlessly, the mask of ‘perfection’ he put on as an idol entirely shattered. Hair clings to his sweat-slicked skin, and even with all the makeup he has on, a faint blush peeks through.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 whose mind goes blank when he finally gets the chance to speak to you freely. Every scenario he had imagined, every speech he had rehearsed, every witty one liner he had planned to say... All of it, gone.

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who has a grand total of zero social skills. He started training as an idol at a really, really young age — even dropped out of school to pursue this line of work — and thus has had no chance to interact with other people outside of his group and his bosses. When he is not “an idol”, he is really no one at all.

You blink. He blinks.

He raises a trembling hand to gesture at the signed album in your arms. “I, uhm... My number — You...?”

His face burns with crimson embarrassment. How very eloquent.

“Oh!” you say. You laugh, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard in his life. “I was wondering about that. Do you, ah, want to erase it or something...?”

His response comes out much more passionately than he had intended to be. “No! I — I mean, it’s... for you. It’s for you.”

“Oh,” you say, again.

The silence stretches on between the two of you. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.

He gulps so audibly he swears it echoes throughout the parking lot.

“Text me? Please...?”

Surprise flashes across your face, before a shy smile, like dawnlight peeking through the clouds, blooms. His heart stutters.

“Sure. Is later alright? I have to get going now...”

“You could give me your number instead!” he offers quickly, stumbling over the words. “So I — Just in case you forget.”

“Ah, sure...!”

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄!𝐈𝐃𝐎𝐋 who doesn’t hear a thing while he’s getting chewed out by his manager. Head filled to the brim with thoughts about you. Fingers twitching, dying to unlock his phone so he can text you. He’s an addict at this point, addicted to the drug that is your attention.

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 trips—bus tickets, shared hostel rooms—and 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 sometimes—say 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 it—the 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 bottle—something cheap, bitter—and 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 there—leaning 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 you—what 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 white—

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 elbow—gentle, so gentle—and 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 prayed—to 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 moment—too long—and 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 down—heaving 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 diamond—he couldn't afford that—but 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 work—he'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 left—if he ever decided you weren't worth the trouble—you 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.

Now it's just you and him.

The way it was always meant to be.

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 :) 𖹭