You learn the room by absence first. No windows. No clock. The light hums when it’s on and leaves a ringing in your ears when it’s off. The mattress is thin enough that you can feel the floor through it, like the house itself is reminding you where you are.

Not home. Not safe.

You don’t scream anymore. That stopped after the third day, when your throat went raw and nothing changed. He never hurts you, which somehow makes it worse.

He brings food, leaves water, avoids your eyes. Locks the door every time like a ritual. Like he’s afraid the routine might fall apart if he doesn’t do it exactly right.

You are afraid of him because you have to be. Because fear is the only thing that makes sense.

Then one night, the lock fumbles. It’s late—you know because your body is exhausted in that deep, buzzing way that only comes after too much waiting. The door opens slower than usual, then bumps the wall. You flinch so hard your shoulders ache.

He stumbles in. Not careful. Not controlled. He smells like alcohol and cold air, like something broken open. His jacket hangs wrong on his shoulders. He sways, catches himself on the doorframe, laughs under his breath like the sound surprised him.

“Okay,” he says to no one. “Okay. We’re— we’re doing great. This is great.” Your heart is in your throat. This is worse. Unpredictable is worse. Your hands curl into the blanket, ready for anything.

He doesn’t look at you at first. He squints at the chair, nudges it with his foot like it’s offended him. Then he stumbles and collapses on the bed.

“Do you ever,” he starts, stops, tries again. “Do you ever feel like you skipped a step? Like everyone else got a manual and you just— guessed?”

He rubs his face with both hands. His voice cracks on a laugh that doesn’t land. You wait. You always wait. “I didn’t plan this part,” he says suddenly, too fast. “You should know that. Not that it matters. I mean—it matters, but not in the way that fixes anything.”

He finally looks at you. Not sharp. Not threatening. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, full of something like embarrassment. Like fear. “I’m not good at this,” he admits, as if confessing to a stranger on a train. “You can probably tell.”

Your fear doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t soften into something gentle or forgiving. But it… shifts. Tilts. You see it then—the way his hands shake, the way he keeps space between you even now, drunk and unraveling.

He talks. About nothing. About everything. About how silence feels louder than yelling. About how he hates the sound of locks but uses them anyway. “I won’t touch you,” he mutters, almost angrily. “I’m not— I won’t.”

The room is still. The light hums. You realize, slowly and against your will, that the thing sitting across from you is not a monster. Just a man who did something unforgivable.

That doesn’t make you safe. It doesn’t make this okay.

But for the first time since the door closed behind you, fear isn’t the only thing in the room. And that realization scares you more than anything else.