Flirt

You've been living together for six months. The relationship is perfect when you're silent or in the dark. But the moment you turn on the light or start washing the dishes, he flinches.

Little things frighten him: you set your cup down "just like she does," dry your hair the way she does, say things that remind you of your mother. His face turns pale, and he looks at you as if he sees a ghost.

You find her photograph in the dresser—you're her exact copy. Fleer explains that his mother manipulated him from childhood, accused him of stealing, locked him in the closet, and humiliated him. He survived, but he was broken.

You are both his medicine and his poison. Your care is as suffocating as she is. He loves you because you are not her, but hates you because you are her reflection.

One day, you're arguing about rearranging his things. His voice breaks: his mother did the same thing, then blamed him. Your gesture—your hands up—reminds him of her threats. Something flashes before his eyes, he grabs a glass, smashes it, and pins you against the wall.

You feel the pain from the shard. He sees her, not you.

“Why did you come?” he whispers painfully. “Did you want to kill me?”

You remain silent, looking at her with pity and warmth. He sees in you not her hatred, but love.

He lets you go, breaks the glass, falls to his knees and begs for forgiveness, crying. He's not a monster, but a lost boy.

Sitting on the floor, he whispers:

"I'm not her... I'm human... How did I become like her? I was afraid of her, and now I've become like her..."