Connection | 18+

OLIVIA:

   The cursor blinks at me, taunting me with its rhythm.

   Three chapters. That's all I've written. Three chapters that feel like I've skinned myself alive, every word pulling something raw and unguarded out of me. It's not bad. I know that when I start writing, something good eventually pours out of me.

   I know what I've written is good. But it's not for him. It's too dark, too raw.

   If Ethan reads what I've written, he'll probably question my mental health. Or worse—he will judge me for it.

   I rub my hands over my face, my fingers brushing the bags under my eyes. Ethan doesn't get to see that part of me. The part I've hidden from everyone—the part that whispers ugly truths I can't let anyone hear.

   He doesn't get to see the part of me that's buried so deep even I can barely acknowledge it.

   My stomach churns as I click back to the beginning of the document. The words on the screen feel like a confession, every sentence pressing on my chest like a weight.

   It's the story of a boy who retreats into a world he's created in his mind, a world far removed from the bleakness of his reality. In that world, he's a god. He controls everything—the seasons, the stars, the fates of the people who inhabit it. Most important of all, he controls Life and Death.

   But then, he meets her.

   She's the first person to challenge him, to make him feel as if he's not as invincible as he believes. She becomes his obsession, the only real thing in his fabricated world. Their connection is dark, all-consuming, and destructive. She pushes him, teases out his ugliest parts, and in their final encounter when she tries to leave him, he kills her.

   And then, unable to bear the weight of what he's done, he kills himself.

   The words blur on the screen as my throat tightens. It's fiction. Obviously. But it feels too much like me. As if both the characters were a persona of me.

   I sigh, slumping back in my chair. Of course, this is what poured out of me—a story about control, obsession, and destruction. A story that feels like it's made of pieces I've been avoiding for years.

   It’s not a complete story yet, just like my other drafts. It’s just their first encounter—barely sketched out, raw, and jagged around the edges.

   But it’s enough.

   Enough to know that the one writing it is fucked up in the head. Enough to feel the weight of the darkness spilling from my mind onto the page.

   And Ethan doesn’t deserve to know that.

   Ethan Hayes doesn't deserve this story. He doesn't deserve to know the cracks in my armor or the darkness I wrap myself in.

   The part that turns pain into art and leaves it bleeding on the page for anyone to see.

   He asked for a story, not a piece of my soul.

   And yet...

   I don't delete it. My finger hovers over the backspace key, but I can't bring myself to press it.

   The screen blurs as I blink away the prickle of tears. I won't cry over this. Not now. Not ever.

   My phone buzzes, pulling me back to reality.

   Dec: SOS? What's the emergency? 抖阴社区r's block or another existential crisis?

   A humorless laugh escapes me. Of course, he'd say that. Declan always treats my spirals like they're just quirky little moments, something to tease me about and move on from.