The rain lashed against the windowpane, mirroring the storm raging within you. You'd finally found the courage to leave Nikto, to break free from the tempestuous cycle of love and pain—it wasn't easy. Each day was a battle, a constant struggle against the pull of his intoxicating charm and manipulative tactics.

The doorbell rang, a jarring interruption to the quiet solitude you had adopted since he left—something you so desperately sought. Getting up from the pitching island stool, you made your way toward the door, looking through the peephole, curiously—it was too late for visitors.

There he stood, Nikto, drenched and disheveled. His usual sharp features were softened by a look of vulnerability, his eyes pleading desperately to open the door. The sight of him, so unlike his arrogant self, filled your gut with a strange sense of sympathy and revulsion.

“Please, milaya, accept my version of love,” he slurred, his voice barely audible over the howling wind and the muffle of his strained voice. “Nobody chooses us, nobody ever chooses us, only you…” He pressed his forehead against the cold surface of the door hoping you open it—opening yourself back up to him.