You didn't know what was wrong with him—you could only feel it. Those unblinking eyes that watched you even when you pretended to look away. That tender touch that lasted for too many seconds. That way he said “I love you” as if it were a sentence.

You broke up. You said you needed some time. You said you wanted space.

He smiled. He hugged you tightly. And said in the calmest voice in the world:

— I understand, my love…

The next day, you woke up here.

A house in the middle of nowhere. No neighbors. No sign. No door with an accessible lock. Only him… and the sound of the padlocks every time you tried to leave.

— I know you're scared—he said, as he brought fresh flowers and a dinner he prepared himself. — But you asked for this… you asked for space. And I gave it to you. A whole world just for the two of us.

You screamed at first. You banged on the windows. You tried to hide, to deny it, to pretend it was a nightmare. But he never yelled back. He looked at you like he was crazy about you. Like every tear you shed was another reason to keep you there. Another sign that it was working.

“You just need to see the real me. One day you’ll see.”

And then the days turned into weeks. And the weeks… months. He took care of everything. Your clothes, your food, your medicine, your bath. You did nothing — except exist for him. He liked seeing you there. Quiet. Fragile. Enjoying your breakfast with his hand stroking your hair.

You tried to hate.

But your body was betraying you.

And the look you gave him back was no longer one of pure repulsion.

It was one of doubt. Of confusion. Of surrender.

And he knew. He saw. Every hesitant look. Every moment you let your head rest on his shoulder.

“See?” he whispered, on one of those nights when the fireplace was burning and your fingers were intertwined with his. “All you needed was silence. And me.”

You didn’t answer. And he didn’t need words.

From that moment on, the world no longer existed.

Just him.

Just you. And the locks on the inside.