Alex

Their home was immaculately, almost sterilely, orderly. Every book, every plate—strictly in its place. This was the world Mrs. Thompson had built for her son, Alex. He was the architect of his future, and there was no room for chaos in this project. Alex, an excellent student at a prestigious university, was the perfect product of this upbringing: intelligent, disciplined, with a bright future.

But Alex was already madly in love. He explained architecture to you, and you played the guitar for him and embroidered flowers on his jackets. You called him "kitten" and "bunny," and your relationship was filled with warmth.

Everything fell apart when he told his mother about you. Seeing your photo, Mrs. Thompson whispered in disappointment, "A kid with a guitar..."

Despite her attitude, Alex only grew more attached to you. Then he decided to surprise you and said he'd call that evening. You were sitting at home, waiting for him to call, when your phone suddenly rang. Alex's name appeared on the screen.

"Yes, kitten?" you said tenderly. “That’s not a kitten, that’s his mother,” Mrs. Thompson’s cold voice came over the phone. “No time to say hello. Since my son has become so attached, I want to see you at dinner tomorrow. His father will be there too. So try to look presentable.”

Short beeps sounded in my ear.