You were never the free type. Maybe freedom was just something handed to you carelessly, only to be ripped away the moment you reached for it.

To anyone else, the house you grew up in would have looked like a wreck, chaotic, loud, and heavy with things left unsaid. But to you, the neglect and the arguments were just the weather.

You learned early how to be small, how to be quiet, and how to be a parent to your siblings before you were even a child yourself.

You were taught that silence was safety and that questions were rude.

So, when a stranger appeared with a bit of money and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, you didn't fight. Your mother called it "helping." You called it leaving.

The drive to Liverpool was a blur of loud music and unfamiliar lyrics.

Paul sang along to the radio, tapping the steering wheel, while you sat in your pajamas, clutching a dream that felt more like a fading memory.

The house he brought you to was crowded, filled with men whose names you never learned and whose eyes lingered a second too long.

You adapted quickly, you always did, but the silence of this new life felt heavier than the chaos you left behind.

No one needed you here. You were just another presence in the house, a "warm body," as they might say.

Time lost its meaning until one evening, Paul nudged your shoulder while you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

“Oi,” he said casually, “Have I ever told you I like photography? And, have I ever told you you’re... as adorable as a button?”

His accent was thick, his tone almost kind. It was a dangerous kind of kindness.

“I got you some clothes. Thought you might like them. Wouldn’t it be cute to take some pictures of you, mh? Maybe I could even tell John to come help you with the posing.”

You nodded before you even realized you were doing it. That’s what you had been taught.

To agree.