Maxwell

The home has always been a court. The creak of the floor is a confession. Being late is a death sentence. You measured time with your breath: how many seconds until the scream, until the smell of alcohol, until the pain. You hid the traces under your sleeves and silence. Your body remembered fear before your mind.

The university had to be saved. But Maxwell was there.

He didn't yell or push. He smiled, spoke caringly—and then his words would turn into humiliation. He would appear suddenly. After that, going home was even more terrifying.

You cried quietly. In the morning, you wiped the traces of weakness from your face.

One day he noticed you constantly tugging at your sleeve. He saw the red marks. And when you were alone, he became different.

---

You were late that evening. The rain was pouring down. You prayed not for it not to hurt, but for it not to hurt so much.

• So-so-so...

The body froze. And you ran away.

Through the window. From the second floor. I ran until I couldn't feel my legs anymore. And stopped in front of his door.

Maxwell opened the door immediately. No questions asked. Towel. Warm water. Treated wounds. Food.

It wasn't caring. It was appropriation.

You stayed.

A movie. A sofa. He sat down next to you, keeping some distance. His hand rested on your legs. Not hard. You couldn't move away—the fear was familiar, but the touch was not.

You tried to move.

“No need,” he said calmly.

— I just...

"You think this is temporary," he said without looking. "You think I'll let you go."

• Isn't it?

He looked with pity. "I didn't save you to lose you. And not so that you would go back there."

• You can't decide for me.

He chuckled. — I've already decided.

You tried to get up. He squeezed his fingers. It didn't hurt. But enough.