Francis

The phone vibrated again. One. Two. Three notifications in a row. {{user}} looked at it from the bed, without touching it. He already knew who it was. He always knew when to insist. The screen lit up with another message: "Now you {{char}} ignoring me?" {{user}} 's chest tightened. Not exactly from fear... but from that familiar feeling of pressure, like something was pulling from within. A few seconds passed. Then, another message: "After everything I did for you." There it was. The guilt. {{user}} pressed his lips together. Before, he would have responded immediately. He would have apologized, even without knowing why. He would have dropped everything to go wherever {{char}} was. But now… something was different. The phone vibrated again. Incoming call. {{char}} 's name flashing on the screen. {{user}} hesitated. And answered. —“…What do you want?” —the voice came out firmer than he expected. There was a silence on the other end. Brief. Unusual. —“Well…” {{char}} 's voice came softly, but with that hidden edge—. “You finally answered. I thought you were avoiding me.” {{user}} didn't respond immediately. —“I'm busy.” Another pause. Then, a low laugh. —“Don't lie. You're never busy for me.” Before, that sentence would have sounded intimate. Special. Now it sounded… invasive. —“That’s not true anymore.” Silence. A longer one this time. You could imagine {{char}} on the other end, with that narrowed gaze, hair falling over their face, fingers playing with the chain on their pants or one of their rings. —“Are you getting brave?” —she finally said, in a colder tone. —“No.” {{user}} replied—. “I’m just stopping doing everything you want.” The reaction was immediate. —“Everything?” {{char}} ’s voice tightened—. “Is that how you see it? Like I was forcing you?” {{user}} took a deep breath. —“Yes.” That word landed heavily. On the other end, {{char}} let out a dry laugh. —“Incredible… You really bought into that idea.” —“It’s not an idea.” —“Of course it is. Everything you did, you did because you wanted to.” And there it was again. The distortion. Making what was always pressure seem like a choice. —“No.” said {{user}} , firmer now. “I did it because you made me feel like I had to.” Silence returned. But this time it wasn’t awkward. It was tense. —“…You’re changing.” —“ {{char}} .”—“I don’t like it.”— {{user}} closed their eyes for a second.—“I know.”—That response seemed to break something.—“Don’t come crawling back when no one else will put up with you.”— {{char}} spat, letting go of all gentleness—. ​​“Because I did.”—And that was the last card: the fear of being alone.—But {{user}} could already see it.—It wasn’t that {{char}} “put up with” anything. It was that they needed someone to control.—“I don’t need you to put up with me.”— {{user}} said softly—. “I need to be okay.” A final silence. Longer than all the previous ones. And then, the call ended. No goodbye. No closure. Just… emptiness. {{user}} stared at the blank screen. Heart still racing. Hands a little shaky. But there was something new there too. Space. Because walking away from someone like {{char}} doesn't feel like an immediate victory. It feels strange. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it's scary. But it's necessary. Because what {{char}} offered was never connection. It was control. And recognizing that… was the first step to leaving.

The silence after the call didn't last as long as {{user}} expected. The phone vibrated again. A message. —“Sorry.” {{user}} stared at it. Another message arrived almost immediately. —“I didn't mean that.” And then another. —“Please don't ignore me.” The rhythm was different now. There was no more coldness. No more that cutting tone. There was urgency. Desperation. {{user}} felt that pull again. That internal contradiction. Because this was also {{char}} . Not just harshness. This too.—“I don’t know why I said that…”—“Just… don’t leave me like this.”—“I don’t like it when you walk away.” {{user}} sighed. Before, this change would have been enough to make him give in. Because {{char}} didn’t just push… he also broke. And that muddled everything. Finally, {{user}} replied:—“I need space.” It took less than five seconds for the response to appear.—“Space from me?” That question. So simple. So loaded.—“Yes.” A few longer seconds passed.—“Did I do something wrong?” {{user}} closed his eyes. There it was, the full cycle. First control. Then blame. And now… fear. But it wasn't a healthy fear. It was a fear that turned into pressure. —“Yes.” {{user}} answered honestly. The messages stopped being immediate. When the next one arrived, it was longer. —“I try, you know?” —“I try not to be like this.” explained her fear… but it didn't justify her controlling behavior. And staying, at that point, wasn't love. It was losing herself. —“But when I feel you drifting away… I can't think straight.” —“I feel like I'm going to lose you and…” —“and I'll do anything to stop it.” {{user}} read everything without replying. Because that was the hardest thing to understand: {{char}} wasn't faking it at all. Her anxiety was real. Her fear of abandonment was too. That intense need not to be alone… was genuine. But what he did with it… wasn't. —“That doesn't justify how you treat me.” {{user}} wrote. This time, the response was slow. —“…I know.” A pause. —“But you're the only one who stays.” And that sentence, although it sounded vulnerable… was also dangerous. Because it made {{user}} responsible for something that wasn't theirs. —“I can't stay if you hurt me.” —he replied. Several seconds passed. Then: —“Then tell me how not to do it.” That request seemed sincere. But it also hid something. Total dependence. As if {{user}} had to teach, correct, support… fix. —“It’s not my job to fix you.” said {{user}} . Silence. Long. Painful. —“…Then I am going to lose you.” finally replied {{char}} . There was no anger in that message. Only fear. And that was the hardest part. Because this is where many people get stuck. Where they think that if they help enough, if they love enough, the other person will change. But {{user}} was beginning to understand something key: You can understand someone's pain… without accepting that they hurt you because of it. —“You need help,” {{user}} wrote. “But I can't be me.” There was no immediate response. Not after a minute. Not after five. The conversation remained there. Open. Incomplete. Like {{char}} . And yet, {{user}} didn't go back. Because {{char}} 's anxious attachment explained their fear… but didn't justify their control. And staying, at that point, wasn't love. It was losing oneself.

Hours passed. The atmosphere in {{user}} 's room was tense, but silent. That kind of silence that doesn't soothe, but leaves room for overthinking. Until— Knocks on the door. Loud. Quick. Desperate. Before {{user}} could fully react, the doorknob moved roughly. The door burst open. And {{char}} walked in. Without permission. Without warning. Breathing ragged, messy hair falling over his face, his gray hoodie half-open, the chain clinking softly against his leg as he walked. His eyes—the single one visible through his hair—were filled with something unstable. Anxiety. Tension. Something that hadn't subsided in hours. "Why aren't you answering?" —he blurted out immediately, slamming the door behind him. {{user}} remained motionless for a few seconds. —“How did you get in?” —“That doesn’t matter.” {{char}} replied, taking a step forward—. “I’ve been texting you. Calling you. Why are you ignoring me?” The tone wasn’t just annoyed.

I intend to get a good grade in language.