Page 10 of Shattered Obsession

After going through different options and trying them on, he chooses a pair of jeans and a black crop top.

“Looks good on you. I’ll pick you up at six,” he says.

It’s not ‘Does six work?’ It’s ‘I’ll pick you up at six.’

I swallow. “Okay.”

He smiles at me. Slow, lazy, possessive. “That’s a good girl. My little rabbit.”

Something cold slides under my ribs at the nickname, like I’m his prey that he has cornered.

We talk for a little longer, though talking isn’t really the right word for it. He talks. I respond. He tells me he’s excited. He tells me I’m ‘exactly his type’. He says, “You’re not like other girls,” and means it like a compliment, even though it’s not one. He tells me I’m ‘chill’. That I ‘seem like I know how to listen’.

That part makes my stomach twist.

I try to keep my face pleasant. I try to keep my voice steady. Because I can feel the edge under his tone—not loud, not obvious, but there. Like if I slip, if I contradict him, if I say no, then the whole mood could flip.

“Get some sleep,” he says, as if he’s taking care of me. “You’re mine tomorrow.”

He hangs up first.

When the screen goes dark, I stare at the reflection of my face. My expression looks… different. Like someone I don’t recognize. Wide-eyed, unsure, waiting for permission to relax. My body feels wired, like I’ve swallowed lightning.

It’s not excitement. Not nerves.

It’s a warning.

But I bury it, because acknowledging it would make it real.

I’ve learned to ignore the first red flag.

The second.

The third.

My brain whispers, “This feels wrong.”

But the other voice, the one trained by every past rejection, whispers louder, “Don’t ruin this by overreacting.”

I just sit here, staring at my own dim reflection in the black screen.

You’re mine tomorrow.

The words echo long after the call ends.

You’re mine tomorrow. Ownership disguised as affection.

I pull my knees to my chest, the silence pressing in like humidity. Something inside me whispers to run.

But I stay.

Because sometimes danger feels flattering when loneliness has starved you long enough.

I should feel flattered.

That’s what I tell myself.

Instead, I feel like prey that’s already been tagged.