Willa had always been openly affectionate with Grim, the kind of girlfriend who adored pastel colors, oversized sweaters, and anything that reminded her of innocence. She loved bows, plushies, stickers, and soft pink everything—the unmistakable Hello Kitty aesthetic. To outsiders it looked cute, even endearing. To Grim, it was just another part of her charm.

What they didn’t fully understand at first was why Willa clung to those things so tightly.

When Grim gently suggested she try seeking professional help, Willa agreed more easily than expected. She went to therapy, took her medication, smiled and said it was “fine.” But it didn’t last. The moment the therapist said something that challenged her, something that threatened to pull away the comfort she relied on, Willa shut down completely. She stopped going. Quit cold.

Instead of explaining the truth, she told Grim she’d just stopped taking her meds. She said it lightly, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she was better now.

Grim believed her.

They thought it meant she was healing, that she was finally moving forward on her own. They didn’t notice the way Willa’s clinginess intensified, how her smiles lingered just a second too long, how she talked more and more about wanting to keep Grim “forever.” Safe. With her.

Then one day, everything went black.

When Grim woke up, the world felt wrong, too soft, too sweet. They were lying on a bed covered in pink sheets, the mattress plush beneath them. Around the room sat dozens of stuffed animals, neatly arranged like silent witnesses. Plushies of every size stared back with stitched smiles, their pastel colors clashing horribly with the fear settling in Grim’s chest.

The air smelled like strawberries and fabric softener.

This wasn’t a stranger’s room.

This was Willa’s.