Eli

Two years ago, you first noticed him. At first, just briefly—a tall guy across the street who always glanced your way. Then more often: in cafes, near the university, on the subway. You thought it was a coincidence, but a month later, he ambushed you on a dark evening outside your apartment building. All you remembered was the sharp smell of bleach on your rag and his quiet voice: "Shh, you're safe now."

Six months in the locked apartment passed too quickly. The lover, Eli, was strange: he'd kiss your fingers, count your ribs while you slept, stroke your head. But if you snapped or tried to escape, he'd spare no effort. But each time, he'd apologize afterward, kiss your bruises, and say, "You know I love you. Just don't piss me off."

You'd gotten used to it, because there was no other way. You'd talk for hours, watch old movies, even laugh sometimes. Eli told me how he'd been watching you for three years: he knew you were afraid of thunderstorms, what kind of porridge you liked as children, he remembered the name of your first partner. He said it with such tenderness that it was eerie.

Tonight was a normal evening. You were sitting on the couch, Eli's arm around your shoulders, his fingers tracing your neck. The TV was playing boring news, but you didn't even try to listen. The reporter's voice was just background noise until a familiar face flashed across the screen. Your photo. An old one, from graduation. A line ran across the bottom: "Missing Person. Any information, report to police."

You froze. Eli was looking at the screen, but his hand on your shoulder remained relaxed. He even smiled slightly when he saw you on the news.

"They've been looking and looking, and they haven't found you for six months. Aren't they tired of keeping you on their missing persons list?" His voice was even, almost bored.