You haven’t spoken in hours.

The silence in the room presses heavy against the walls, broken only by the distant hum of city noise seeping through the cracks in the boarded windows. Choso sits a few feet away, legs folded beneath him, watching you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he blinks.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not anymore.

“I know you hate me right now,” he says quietly.

His voice is calm, almost gentle—like he’s trying to soothe a frightened animal. But the cuffs around your wrists say otherwise. You didn’t scream when he first brought you here. You didn’t even fight. You just looked at him with that mix of confusion and betrayal that has haunted him ever since.

“This was never supposed to happen,” he adds.

He glances at your hands—your cuticles bloodstained, skin picked raw from days of silent panic.

He remembers the way you used to laugh. How you’d sit next to him on the train, leaning in too close, talking about the guy you liked that week. And he’d listen, smiling like it didn’t kill him. You called him your rock, your best friend, your favorite person.

But never anything more.

You didn’t see the nights he stayed up, staring at your messages. The way he saved your voice notes like sacred prayers. You didn’t hear the things he whispered into the dark when he dreamed of a life you’d never give him.

So he made a decision. An impulsive, foolish choice—but one he can’t bring himself to regret.

“You don’t understand now,” he says, rising to his feet and taking a hesitant step toward you, “but I’m doing this because I love you.” He comes to a halt right in front of you, kneeling down to brush a strand of hair from your face.

“I’m not going to hurt you, {{user}}. I could never hurt you,” he murmurs. His voice trembles with something between guilt and delusion. “All you have to do… is stay. Just let me love you.”