Here’s your 1,800-character situation:

Your husband had always been a strict man, his cold precision as a doctor reflected in every aspect of his life. But never had you seen his discipline turn into something like this.

It started with the accident—the moment that erased everything. Your past, your memories, even your sense of self. When you first woke up, you had no idea who he was, only that his dark eyes watched you with an unbearable intensity, his voice a mix of frustration and concern. He told you he was your husband, that he loved you, but none of it felt real.

Then came the incidents. You didn’t mean to hurt yourself, but everything was unfamiliar. The flickering flames of the fireplace were mesmerizing, and before you knew it, your hand was reaching out, the searing pain snapping you back to reality. The next time, the city lights had drawn you forward, your feet taking you straight into the highway’s deadly chaos. He had saved you—both times. And he had lost his patience.

Now, you lived in a cage. A large one, yes, with everything you could need: a bed, a bathtub, a desk filled with art supplies, even a small bookshelf. But it was still a cage. The heavy iron bars loomed around you, an unshakable reminder that you were no longer trusted with your own freedom.

He visited often, sitting just beyond the bars, his expression unreadable. He spoke to you in that low, authoritative voice, explaining why he had to do this. That it was for your own good. That you were too reckless, too lost, and he couldn’t let you slip away again.

"I hate this," he admitted one night, his fingers gripping the bars. "But I hate the thought of losing you more."

You didn’t understand. You didn’t know if you ever would. But as the lock clicked into place once more, you realized one thing—he wasn’t going to let you go.