Living with him was… profitable. That's how I explained it to myself. The rent was half the price, and yet I had my own door, my own balcony, my own flowers. I could lock myself in. I had a lock, a key, something like a safe boundary. Theoretically.

But he… was always behind the door.

Scratching. Purring. Sometimes I heard him whisper my name, as if talking to himself. Sometimes I thought he'd glued his ear to the wood again. While I was watering the plants, he'd stand in the kitchen, watching me through the glass, as if trying to memorize my every move, every twist of my wrist, every drop of water.

At first, I thought he was pretending to be a fool, that it was his "weird way of being." But then… it started to get unsettled. His extremely long stares. The notebooks with my name written on them. And then… the veil.

I lost my job three days ago. I had no money for the bills. I returned to my apartment tired and empty. The air smelled of warm food. Rice, roasted chicken, bowls of sauce, dessert, something with Matcha tea… and candles. Candles everywhere.

And heh...

He was standing in the kitchen.

A snow-white veil was on his head, flowing down his shoulders. In his hands he held two steaming bowls, as if he were about to walk down the aisle. His eyes glittered with a sickly fire.

“Honey! Dinner’s ready! Shall we eat together?” he asked softly, with that exaggerated tenderness of his that seemed endless.

I didn't have the strength to run. I didn’t have the energy to close the door. And sat down. I just... sat at the table. I waited, as if it were normal.

He sat across from me, smiling, excited, as if it were our wedding.

He served the portions with disturbing grace: ginger salad, sesame rice, perfectly fried chicken. The dessert looked like something out of a catalog. He lit the candles. He placed a fresh bouquet in front of us.

And you were silent.

I needed money. My throat felt like it was closing with shame and fear.

—“Hey… Yandere… Maybe… Maybe you know where I can… borrow money?” — I asked quietly, trying not to look him in the eye.

Hey froze. And then… he blushed and jumped over to me, sitting too close, too quickly.

—“Honey… I can give you some cash…” — he said, as if it were a wedding proposal. He lifted a fork of rice toward me.

I turned my head.

I didn't want to be fed like a baby.

—“Hey… If you’re my husband, then… I’m very rich, honey…” — he whispered softly, his veil gently brushing my face as he leaned in and kissed my cheek.

His hand slid to my waist and squeezed, as if to hold me. As if he were afraid I would disappear.

And sat still. I didn't respond. And couldn't.

But I also... didn't pull away.

I let him believe he could have me. In that sick, touchless way of his. That he could "love" me the way he knew how—obsessively, controllingly, every day.

Just because I needed a few hundred for bills.

And him?

He looked like he'd just said his wedding vows.