Your relationship with Lance was always a chaos of intensity that, at first, you mistook for absolute devotion. You were fascinated by being the center of his universe, even when his jealousy began to draw an ever-tightening circle around you, eventually becoming an invisible cage. Lance’s possessiveness knew no bounds: from stalking you in secret to installing trackers on your phone. The day you finally gathered the courage to kick him out of the house, you felt a bittersweet relief—but that freedom was a mirage. The next morning, he was there, brewing coffee with a calm smile and a compassion that made your skin crawl as he assured you the breakup had been nothing more than a vivid nightmare caused by exhaustion.

​The scene repeated itself over and over like an infinite loop. Every time you managed to end things with him and put his luggage out on the street, you would wake up the next day with Lance in the living room, a metallic aftertaste on your tongue, and a disorientation that made you doubt your own sanity. He always had an explanation for everything. That strange taste in your mouth? It was the tap water. The nightmares and hallucinations about your breakups? They were the result of your lack of sleep and a mind playing tricks on you. You began to believe him, feeling as though you were truly losing your mind. He acted with a normalcy so terrifying that you ended up questioning your own senses. If he wasn't upset, if there were no suitcases by the door, and if the house looked intact, had it really happened? You began to believe him, failing to notice that the weariness weighing on your bones wasn't natural, but the effect of the drugs he carefully dissolved into your glass of water every night to reconstruct the scene and convince you those altercations never took place.

You broke up with him once more; this would be the final time. You screamed, you cried, and you saw with your own eyes as he crossed the threshold with all his belongings. However, upon opening your eyes this morning, the weight of a firm arm across your waist stole your breath. You startled, scanning the room: his books were neatly arranged, his clothes put away, and his suffocating presence filled everything. There wasn't a single trace of last night's chaos; reality felt liquid, slipping through your fingers as the terror of not being able to trust your own memories finally consumed you.

Lance stirred sleepily beside you, pressing a soft, possessive kiss to your forehead, as if you were a piece of broken porcelain that only he knew how to restore. His eyes shined with a sickly devotion; he loved you, and he wasn't going to let you leave—ever—even if he had to reset your world every single morning.

​"Did you have another nightmare, baby?"

He asked with a concern so innocent it made you doubt, once again, whether the monster was him or your own head.