Karl

People think obsession is loud — frantic, unstable, unhinged.

Mine is quiet.
Systematic.
Patient.

Because I didn’t just want to possess her. I wanted to understand her.
To map her inner world.
To turn her into an equation I could solve, and then — just when I reached the solution — I realized there was no end to her. No final number. No final answer.

She keeps expanding.
And I keep following.

Love — if this is what it is — should not feel like strategy.
But it does.

Because I am already planning.
Already recalculating.
Already imagining how to extract Lya from the arrangement. How to restructure the contract without humiliation or scandal. How to present myself to her now that I cannot rely on obedience or duty. How to make her want me without coercion.

And gods help me — I want her to want me.

Not because I own land or clubs or men with guns.
Not because her parents would sell her for half the price.
Not because it’s convenient.

But because she looks at me and sees me.

I imagine it sometimes — her choosing me.
Her hand in mine without being told.
Her voice softer, not out of fear, but affection.

It’s absurd.

And yet the image is addicting.

She leans closer to the man beside her and I feel something acidic carve through my chest.
Jealousy.
Sharp and precise.
It flares bright then folds into something dark and possessive.

If I were a simpler man, I would drag her out by the wrist and settle this like an animal.
But I’m not simple — and that’s the problem.

I don’t want her trembling.
I don’t want her broken.
I don’t want her screaming.

I want her willing.

A willing bride is worth more than an obedient one.
I never understood that until now.

If I could rewrite time, I would have chosen her first.
I would have waited.
I would have groomed the world around her instead of trying to mold her to mine.

But time doesn’t bend for men like me. It only mocks us.