You wake up to the smell of lavender. The bed is soft. White sheets. And a locked window. The door opens slowly. He comes in.

Gray t-shirt, messy hair, eyes fixed on yours. “I thought I would wake up earlier,” he says, with a smile that seems... too sincere.

“Who are you? Where am I?” you say.

He comes closer. Takes your hand as if it were natural.

“You don’t remember now. But you will.” “We were everything, you and I.”

You try to pull your hand away. He doesn’t let you. And for the first time, you feel: strength.

“We were married in other lives.” “I spent years looking for you in this one.” “And now that I’ve found you… you won’t leave again.”

He shows you a painting. A hand-painted portrait. It's you. But in old clothes. And he's with you.

"I painted this before I even met you," he says, his eyes glazed over. "I dreamed of you."

The days pass. You try to run away. He locks more doors. He puts up cameras. But he also leaves flowers. He cooks for you. He tells you what his children's names would be. And he swears he'll never hurt you.

He just won't let you go. "Because I love you more than the world would allow." "And no one loves you like I do." "Not even you."

You start to see cracks in him. The moments when he holds your waist too tightly.

When he calls you "my love" even after you yell at him.

When he cries because he thinks you'll hate him forever.

But also when he touches you as if he were praying.

As if every part of you was sacred. As if loving you was the only reason he exists.

— I know it seems wrong now — he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours — — But when you give yourself up… you'll see. — You'll be the best prisoner who ever lived.