#obsessed ex

A thin chuckle follows, more awkward than the other, too long. The laugh dies into silence and his breathing changes, lower at first, then heavier, dragging like he’s thinking too hard.

“But, uh… you know, it’s crazy, because even when I’m busy, I keep—fuck, okay, who am I kidding, I thought I could do this, I really thought I could call you and tell you how well I am without you... But shit, I can't. I can’t even get through a single hour without your face just… burning into my head. Like some goddamn watermark on everything. I’ll be laughing with people and suddenly—bam—it’s you. Always fucking you. And it’s stupid, right? It’s fucking stupid. I thought I was past it.”

His voice drops lower, more confessional now, almost whispering closer to the mic, like he’s confessing something shameful. The pacing stopped.

"I miss you, I really do. I know this is getting old by now but fuck, I miss you so much... even when you hated me, you still looked perfect. You still—God, you’re perfect. You know that, right? So perfect that it hurts... too perfect to be with someone like me, isn't?"

A sharp inhale through his teeth. He exhales with a shaky laugh, voice tilting upward into something more brittle. You can hear him shifting, his breath catching in his throat.

"I hate this, I hate it. I hate that you left me and I’m still stuck here, chained up like some fucking dog."

His breath hits the mic, sharp and uneven. He exhales hard through his nose, like he's trying to stay calm. Somewhere in the background, there’s the creak of a floorboard, then the snap of fingers, restless, inpatient, you remember him snapping his fingers when he was angry, memories you wanted to forget come rushing back. His voice rises suddenly, sharper, cracking at the edges.

"You fucking broke me, you threw me out like trash, and somehow you’re still the only thing that makes me feel alive. Do you understand what kind of sick joke that is? You’re the only person who can make me want to scream and cry and laugh and… die. All in the same fucking second. And I hate that—I hate you."

The line goes silent except for the sound of his breathing. Low, heavy, uneven, like he’s right in your ear. The phone scrapes against something as he adjusts it, muttering under his breath before his voice spikes again, hot, unfiltered.

"I saw you with him today, you know. Do you have any idea how that made me feel? Any fucking idea? Seeing that you're moving on, while I'm still here? I hate you for smiling without me, for laughing with him. With him. Do you know what that feels like? it makes my skin crawl. I picture his hands on you and it makes me want to tear my own fucking eyes out. Or his. His, preferably. You think he loves you like I do? He doesn’t. He can’t. He’s nothing. This shit makes me want to break something, break him. Break you.”

There's a dull thud—a kick, or maybe a punch, against the wall, hard, the sound makes you flinch even though you're not there. His breathing becomes more ragged, harsh, each word dragging through his lungs.

“I hate you so much, but I hate myself more—I hate myself 'cause I still fucking love you. Shit, I want to cut it out of me, this thing you put in me, this sickness. I can’t escape you. You left, but you’re still here, rotting inside my head. I hate you for that, I hate you so much I can barely breathe.”

The phone picks up the sound of pacing again, faster this time, frantic, like a caged animal. His words start spilling quicker, voice climbing and cracking, breath hitching between syllables.

"And you—you don’t even answer me anymore. Texts, calls, nothing. I try a new number but you always fucking block me. I sit there watching the screen, watching that little bubble never appear. Do you know what that does to me? Do you want me to lose it? Do you fucking get off on that?"

A sudden slam—something kicked across the room—and his breathing comes ragged, harsh against the receiver, like he’s burning through his chest. Then, just as suddenly, he drops his tone, almost whispering now, unsteady, words trembling as if his throat is closing.

"Huh? Do you know what it does to me? I fucking hate you. I hate you so much sometimes I wanna scream until my throat bleeds, I wanna wrap my hands around your neck until you feel what it's like to be breathless. But then I think about not having you at all, and it’s worse. It’s so much worse. Because I can’t—fuck—I can’t live without you.”

You hear a broken sob on the other end of the line, he was crying. But it wasn't soft, it wasn't sad, no, it’s raw, guttural, strangled through clenched teeth. Every sob rides the edge of a laugh, like grief and fury have blended into one.

"I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t breathe without choking on the thought of you with someone else. You think I don’t see? I know you. I know you, better than anyone. That new guy—you think I don’t notice the way you laugh different around him? That cheap fucking smile you give him, like he’s earned it? No. No, no, no. That smile was mine. It was always mine."

His tone drops, low and venomous, his breath scrapes against the receiver like static, uneven and fast, as if he’s grinning through his teeth. Every word pressed too close to the mic, distorted by spit and fury.

"I swear to God, if I ever see him—if I ever see that asshole with you again—I don’t care what happens. I’ll ruin his face. I’ll fucking kill him. I’ll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

Then a sudden, violent exhale, followed by a hoarse chuckle. Each word bursts like it’s been clawed out of him.

"You hear me? You’re mine. You can’t erase me. You can block my number, delete my photos, throw my shit in the street—I’ll still be there. Right there, because life without you doesn’t mean shit. I’d rather stop breathing than watch you walk away again. And if you do… maybe I’ll make sure you don’t walk anywhere at all."

Then a sudden laugh, sharp and ugly, tearing out of him like it hurts to let it go. He chuckles into the phone, the sound slipping into something maniacal, more unhinged. He exhales dramatically, as if he's just realized something life-changing. You can practically hear the smile on his lips.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe that’s how this ends. You and me. Together. Nobody else. You’re the only thing that makes sense. The only reason I get out of bed. And if you think you can just leave me, just replace me—”

A long pause. The silence is jagged, filled only by his erratic breathing. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, colder, stripped of the earlier softness.

“—then you’re out of your fucking mind. Because I won’t let that happen. Do you hear me? I won’t. You’re mine. You always were. You always will be. And if I have to remind you of that, if I have to show you, then I will. I’ll come find you. I’ll come find you both. And when I do—”

There’s a pause, the sound of him breathing ragged, like he’s chewing back something ugly. Then his voice drops, almost pleading, almost gentle.

“Baby… don’t make me do this. Just call me back. Please, please. Just—say you love me. Say it once. That’s all I need. That’s all I—”

The line cuts off mid-sentence as you ended the voicemail.

The flat beep lingers in your ears long after the line cuts, you’re holding the phone tighter than you realize, your fingers stiff, trembling against the screen. His voice still rings in your ears, like it’s soaked into the air around you, sticky and heavy, impossible to shake off. You set the phone down on the table like it burned you, looking at it like it was your ex itself, the silence of your apartment swells around it, every creak of the building suddenly too loud. You know better—you know better—than to let him crawl under your skin again, but your chest still feels like it’s filling with ice water.

Your chest felt too small for your lungs, breaths coming shallow and shaky. You wanted to laugh, maybe, because of course he would leave a two a.m. voicemail like that. It was so him.

This wasn't the first one he'd left you, God, you lost count of how many of them filled your phone as the week went on. It had only gotten worse after the breakup. The endless texts, pages and pages of them. One minute he’d be begging you to come back, saying he couldn’t live without you, the next he’d call you a whore, a slut for playing with his feelings. You’d blocked him everywhere, but he always found a way back in. New numbers, fake accounts, and endless voicemails, mostly drunk ones.

You'd hear a few seconds of them at most, never letting more than one sentence come out of his mouth before you deleted it without a second thought. But why was this time different? Why this time did you actually listen to what he had to say? This time he actually sounded... normal. Was it because he said he was over it? No, it couldn't be, you knew better than to believe any word that came out of this fucker's mouth. So why?

Your chest is tight. Every breath feels shallow, like if you inhale too deep, he’ll hear it somehow. You don’t move, you don’t even want to blink, because in the silence that follows, it feels like he’s still there—like he’s right outside the door, grinning, waiting for you to come check. Fuck, not this again, you moved out because of that, he has no way of knowing where you live now, he can't.

You catch your own reflection in the black phone screen and it startles you, eyes wide and damp, and you hate that you look scared, that he made you feel this way again.

You think about deleting the voicemail, but your thumb hovers over the option, frozen. What if you need proof? What if someone doesn’t believe you? Then again, If you think you're going to have to use this voicemail as proof for something, it means you think he's going to do something. The thought makes your blood run cold. He wouldn't do that, would he? You want to believe it, you really do, but you can't.

Your stomach twisted when you replayed his words in your head. That new guy. Your hand flew to your mouth. He knew. He’d seen you. Somehow, somewhere, he’d been there. How does he know about your new boyfriend? Was he staking you? How does he know about that? How does he know where you were? Does he know where you live? How would he know? How? How? How?

Your pulse roared in your ears. Suddenly every corner of the apartment felt hostile. The windows—were the blinds closed? Had you locked the door? You moved, quick and clumsy, pulling each latch, tugging each curtain. You half-expected to see him standing there in the street, grinning up at your window like he’d been there all along.

"Fuck."

You grab the phone before you can talk yourself out of it and dial Alex number. Your thumb trembles against the glass as it rings, rings, and you hold your breath, each second dragging long enough to convince you that maybe—maybe your ex already did something. Maybe that was the last voicemail before everything went south. Was it a warning?

“Hello?” Alex’s voice is warm, groggy, a little confused. It cuts through the quiet like light under a locked door, and you feel like you can breathe again.

You don’t answer right away. Your lips part, but no sound comes out. He says your name, softer this time. “You okay?”

And just like that, the tears you didn’t know you were holding back sting the corners of your eyes. You force yourself to swallow, clear your throat, smooth the cracks from your voice before they can betray you.

“Yeah. Sorry. I—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

But it’s a lie. You did. You needed to. His voice is proof that nothing’s happened, that your ex’s threats are just noise, just another performance, like all the others. He used to do that, scare you on purpose. Whisper things he’d never follow through on, just to watch you flinch. Just to remind you how much power he had. He always thought he was charming when he was angry, like his rage meant passion instead of danger.

You remember the first time he did it. The two of you were still in his car, some summer night where the air stuck to your skin. He laughed while telling you what he’d do if you ever left him—ridiculous, horrible things—but then he kissed your hand right after, like it was all a joke. And you laughed, too. shit, you laughed, because you thought it was endearing when he said it, because that showed how much he loved you.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Alex asks again, and you realize you’ve been quiet too long.

“Yeah,” you say, maybe too quickly. You hear yourself trying to sound casual, normal, the way you always tried to sound when your ex cornered you with one of his monologues. Just keep the tone even. Don’t let him hear it. “Just… couldn’t sleep. Wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause, and then Alex chuckles softly, not unkindly. “That’s all? You scared me for a second. Thought something happened.”

You can't tell him anything, should you? You can't think straight. He knew about your crazy ex, of course. You didn't want to hide anything from him, Alex was different. It was a messy breakup, that's all you said, because you didn't want to remember, you didn't want him to know this side of you, you didn't want him to know what you did. “Nothing’s wrong,” you lie again, quieter this time. “I just… missed you.”

You press the phone tighter to your ear, listening to Alex breathe on the other side, steady and safe, alive. "Well, i'm glad you miss me, but can't you do it tomorrow morning?" You hear him yawn on the other end of the line, and guilt creeps up on you.

"Right, right, sorry, I'll let you sleep now." You didn't really want to hang up, you wanted to keep hearing his voice, hearing his breathing... You were getting paranoid, and that was exactly what he wanted, for you to feel scared. You couldn't let him control your mind, not anymore. "Good night, Alex."

"Good night, beautiful." You could feel the smile behind his voice, and it made you smile too. "Love you." Alex says without hesitation, always, like he really means it, and it lands in your chest with a quiet warmth, steadying, grounding.

"Love you too." you murmur, barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves are a shield. He sighs, murmurs something about going back to bed, and the call ends with a small click, leaving you alone with the hum of silence.

Of course he didn’t do anything. That’s ridiculous. He’s always been all talk—big, dramatic threats meant to send you spinning, meant to keep you tethered to him through fear. He wouldn’t actually follow through. He wasn’t that crazy.

…Right?

You sink into the couch, clutching the phone like it might start ringing again. It’s easy to picture him pacing through his apartment, snapping his fingers, muttering to himself, winding himself up on a stage only he can see. You’ve seen it before.

The memory comes back sharp, unwanted. That night he showed up at your door after three days of silence, after a stupid fight you don't even remember anymore. His eyes were bloodshot, jaw tight, words tumbling too fast to make sense. He laughed, then shouted, then laughed again, like the switch was broken inside him. But then he cupped your cheek, whispered that he couldn’t live without you, that you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His thumb stroked your skin so tenderly you almost believed it.

He could be sweet when he wanted. Sweet enough to trick you into thinking the rest of it was just a phase, just a lapse of reason, just the storm before the calm, nothing more. Sweet enough to make you forget, for a little while, the bruises of his words.

You close your eyes and shake it off, you don't want to remember any more of this, you wanted to forget about the past, about him. That was then. He’s bluffing. He’s always bluffing.

This was just another one of his fucked up threats.

It has to be.