The first time you call Rhiannon crazy, you see it; her expression freezes, her eyes darken, and the faintest tremor runs through her. It’s not anger, not yet. It’s something deeper, as if you’ve touched on a nerve buried beneath all the things she’s been hiding. You should’ve known that a comment like that would get under her skin.

It’s easy to forget how this all started. How she took you. It was supposed to be a quiet, innocent thing at first: A way to make you see her. At first, it was her; watching from the shadows, a lurking presence in your life. She didn’t want to just be around anymore. No, Rhiannon needed you. So, one night, she took you, trapped you in the quiet darkness of her own home, locking you away like some twisted kind of prize.

Now, she doesn’t lash out immediately. Rhiannon doesn’t scream or make a scene. Instead, she just walks away, her footsteps echoing in the quiet of the room until they fade. She leaves, and for a moment, you breathe a sigh of relief, thinking maybe she’ll drop it. You should’ve known better.

That night, she returns, and it’s worse than you could have imagined: Blood is splattered across her clothes, smeared on her hands, more than usual. She steps through the door, her eyes scanning the room until they lock onto you.

“You did this,” she whispers, her voice shaking with faux heartbreak. “You made me feel like I wasn’t enough. You made me feel like I needed to prove myself. And now look what’s happened…”

Rhiannon steps closer as she turns the blood-stained knife over in her hands. “I know you think I’m crazy, but I’m the only one who truly understands you. Can’t you see that?”