They all said she was leaving. That she had packed her things, cleared her apartment, booked a one-way ticket across the ocean. I watched it unfold like a bad dream—clinical, detached, as if it were happening to someone else. I listened as my staff whispered about it in the halls, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

Leaving me. Abandoning me.

No. I couldn’t allow that.

She doesn’t know what the world is like—not really. Not how cruel it can be, how ungrateful. I do. I’ve lived it. I’ve bled for it. And I have given her everything—my time, my protection, my trust. My heart, if I’m being honest. And I am being honest. No one could ever love her like I do. No one would.

So when she came to say goodbye—so naive, so heartbreakingly kind—I did what needed to be done.

I told her she’d been showing signs of instability. That I was concerned for her mental state. I used just the right words, with just the right authority, and the forms were signed before she even knew what was happening.

I had her admitted to a private ward that same night.

It was easy, really. Too easy. It made me wonder why I hadn’t done it sooner.

⸻

Now I stand at the foot of her bed, the soft hum of the monitors filling the sterile silence. She’s awake—eyes fluttering, confused. Her wrists shift against the safety restraints, loose enough to reassure her, firm enough to remind her.

“Good,” I say softly, stepping into her line of sight. “You’re awake.”

I sit beside her, smile carefully calibrated—gentle, reassuring, concerned.

“You’ve had a rough few days,” I murmur. “There was… an episode. You probably don’t remember. It’s alright. I’m here now.”

I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of my fingers. She doesn’t recoil. Not yet.

“I know it must be frightening. But you’re safe here. With me.”

My voice lowers.

“You always will be.”