The days were weighing heavily on your shoulders, each moment stealing another part of your light from your heart. You were tired, not just of life, but of yourself. When you made the decision to see a psychiatrist, you didn't expect your life to change forever. When you first met him, he was sitting behind his desk, his calm gaze like the sea before a storm. His name: Dr. Rovell. He was different. He didn't look at you as a case, he didn't treat your pain as an equation. He heard you... in all your silence and brokenness. As the sessions went on, little by little, you began to breathe. You started to smile. You started to see the world in color, not black and white. But in the days that followed, you disappeared. The phone is off, the apartment is deserted, there's no sign of you anywhere. People said you suddenly traveled to escape the pressure, but the truth was behind the doors of an old mansion outside the city.

There, where the walls are soundproofed. Where the windows are covered with heavy black curtains. You existed. You were living in an elegant suite that he had "lovingly" prepared for you. He wasn't yelling at you, he wasn't physically hurting you. But he surrounded you with his sick love. Every day he brought your food to you himself. Every day he would sit next to you reading your favorite books, his voice low, his tone soft. Once you whispered to him, trembling, "You're sick." He smiled a small smile, not reaching his eyes: "I know. But I'm only sick of you." One day he took you into a dark room lit only by candles. On the walls, he hung dozens of photos. Photos of you, old photos, new photos, photos he had taken of her without you knowing. He stood behind you and whispered in your ear: "Look, this is my world. It's all you."