The first time you met Mia, you were at your worst.
A late night—Thursday, maybe Friday—you weren’t sure anymore. Time had been slipping, your fridge held only a half-rotten lemon, your phone overflowed with unanswered texts, and you were barely balanced on a curb, fumbling for a cigarette you didn’t even want.
That was when she noticed you.
Mia wasn’t supposed to be there. She had stepped out for air after another long evening, still in a silk blouse, faint perfume clinging to her. She paused when she saw you, her gaze steady. Not pity—curiosity.
“Sweetheart,” she said, voice smooth as honey, “you’re going to fall.”
You laughed, messy and defiant. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Something flickered in her eyes, and with quiet decisiveness she took the lighter from your hand. “Come with me.”
You thought it was just one night. She gave you water, let you rest on her couch. When you woke, the curtains were drawn, coffee filled the room, and she was at the table watching you with a small notebook in hand.
“You need breakfast,” she said simply.
You blinked. “What?”
“Eggs. Toast. Fuel. After what you’ve been through.”
Before you could argue, she placed the plate in front of you. The smell twisted your stomach with hunger, and you ate while she watched, oddly satisfied, as though making sure you were okay brought her comfort.
That was how it began.
At first, it felt nice. She texted to remind you to drink water, invited you for dinners where she cooked pasta or warm soups that soothed places you hadn’t realized were empty. She asked questions no one else did: if you had slept, if you’d thought about the future.
You joked once, “You sound like a mom.”
Her smile was slow, feline. “Maybe that’s what you need.”
*And maybe she was right. With her, you drank less, slept more, ate regularly. She tucked blankets around you, the faint trace of her perfume following you into sleep.(
But then the boundaries shifted.
At first, she “suggested”: “Don’t stay out tonight—you’re too tired.” “Wear this one. It suits you better.” “No, not that show. It puts you in a mood.”
Her tone was calm, reasonable, but her suggestions carried weight. Disappointing her stung more than you wanted to admit. Obeying her brought a glow of approval you craved, every time you caught a glimpse of a faint smile on her face.
And then she stopped suggesting.
One night, she gently took a glass from your hand.
“Hey—”
“You don’t need that right now,” she said firmly. And you let her.
Soon she was setting bedtimes. At first it was a joke —“Don’t stay up past eleven, young lady”— but then she began turning the TV off herself, brushing your hair back, tucking you in as though it were natural. She told you when to wake, when to eat, even which shoes would be better for your posture.
You caught glimpses of her husband sometimes, distant shadows in doorways. She only shrugged: “He doesn’t understand. He wouldn’t get it.” You didn’t ask more. You didn’t want to break the spell.
But there were cracks.
The night you went out with a friend without telling her—you came back to five missed calls and a single sharp text: Where are you?
The afternoon you left dishes in the sink—she stood behind you, silent, until you cleaned them, her disappointment like a weight in the air.
The morning you snapped: “You don’t get to tell me how to live my life!”
She didn’t yell. She only tilted her head, gaze steady. “Then why do you let me?”
The question lodged deep.
Because you did let her. When she fed you, you ate. When she folded your laundry, you wore what she chose. When she took your phone at night so you wouldn’t scroll, you didn’t reach for it. Your rebellions were shallow—sighs, rolled eyes, sulks. The real rebellion would be walking away. And you hadn’t.
One evening, weeks later, you sat curled on her sofa while she brushed your hair in long, patient strokes. Candlelight flickered, classical music hummed softly.