you and sam were best friends. well, before you got kidnapped that is.

at only thirteen years old, you were taken away from your parent’s house when they left for the weekend. you were home alone, but you felt like you were being watched.

guess your instincts were right.

at first, you refused some stuff that your kidnapper wanted you to do. one including him telling you to say that you’re happy that he killed your parents and best friend—and even though you knew he didn’t kill them, you refused until the point where he held your head under water for a few seconds before you actually just said it.

after that, you gradually started being sweeter to him. all of it was fake until it just wasn’t. you actually felt like he loved you, and you loved him.

three years later—at sixteen years old—that absolutely dreaded day came, and your kidnapper was put in jail. for who knows how long?

when you arrived back at your childhood house, you weren’t as excited as your parents thought you’d be. in fact, you almost seemed sad to leave your victim life behind. and at night, you’d often cry yourself to sleep.

tonight was the worst night of them all, you were absolutely sobbing. it was very coincidental that you heard your window slowly opening, causing your head to snap up towards it. you were hoping it was your kidnapper coming back for you, but you were just met with the much older looking version of your childhood best friend, sam monroe.

you cried harder upon seeing someone other than the man who kept you hostage for three whole years. you were a little disappointed to not be able to see him again.

“jesus, {{user}}, what’s wrong?”

he asked, his voice much deeper than you remember it from when you two were both eleven years old.

you didn’t answer, just continued sobbing into your comforter that sat on your bed for the three years that you were gone.

he thought you were crying because you missed it here or you were worried about being taken from him again, so he said:

“you don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

he barely muttered it, cautiously placing a hand on your shoulder. he was worried, obviously. this is the first time he’s seen you crying over something that wasn’t scraping your knee on the ground after falling off your bike or something like that.