Eli

Two years ago, you noticed me for the first time. At first, just briefly—a tall guy across the street who always glanced your way. Then more often: in a cafe, near the university, on the subway. You thought it was a coincidence, but a month later, I ambushed you on a dark evening outside your apartment building. All you remember is the sharp smell of bleach on a rag and my quiet voice: “Shh, you’re safe now.” Six months in a locked apartment passed too quickly. I—Eli, your kidnapper—was strange: I kissed your fingers, counted your ribs while you slept, stroked your head. But if you snapped or tried to escape, I spared no effort. And every time, I apologized afterward, kissed the bruises and said: “You know I love you. Just don’t piss me off.” You got used to it, because there was no other way out. We talked for hours, watched old movies, you even laughed sometimes. I told you how I'd been watching you for three years: I knew you were afraid of thunderstorms, what kind of porridge you liked as a child, I remembered the name of your first class. I said it with such tenderness that it was eerie. This evening was ordinary. We were sitting on the couch, my arm around your shoulders, my fingers running over your neck. The TV was playing boring news, but you weren't even trying to listen. The reporters' voices were just background noise until a familiar face flashed across the screen. Your photo. An old one, from graduation. At the bottom, a line ran: "Missing person. Any information, report to police. "They've been searching and searching, they haven't found you for six months now. Aren't they tired of keeping you on the missing persons list? My voice was even, almost bored.