You Don't Own Me

🥀Prologue🥀

I quietly make my way up the old stairs, careful not to make too much noise. Finally, I arrive at her bedroom door, a small barrier between the world outside and her peaceful retreat. My heart beats softly as I reach for the cold brass doorknob, turning it slowly to avoid any sound that could disturb her peace. I pause for a moment, listening to the gentle rise and fall of her breath on the other side.

Today was a long day for her. She worked hard at the diner, serving customers with her cheerful smile, and then spent time volunteering at the daycare, where her kindness always shines. My sweet little Jaan truly deserves this quiet rest. As I push the door open just enough to peek inside, I feel a rush of love for all the effort she puts in, so much for someone so young.

I kneel silently at the edge of her bed, the soft glow of the moon spilling across her face. My fingers hover before I dare to touch her cheek, drawing slow circles with my thumb. She stirs faintly, a small sound breaking the silence, but drifts back into slumber.

My words are little more than a breath: “We meet again, my sweet little jaan.”The room feels heavier, the air charged. A dangerous impulse flickers inside me as I lean closer, yet the stillness of her breathing reminds me that she has no idea I’m here.

Before I can resist, I lean down, drawn by something raw and insistent. The instant my lips meet hers, the air changes. Her eyes snap open—suddenly the fragile, sleeping angel is gone, replaced by alertness, confusion, fear.

Her eyes fly open wide, panic spilling across her features before she can even find her voice. The sound rising in her throat is cut off as I clamp a hand over her mouth, pressing her cry back into silence.

“Did you miss me?” I murmur, tilting my head, letting a crooked smile curl across my face. In the dim light, her pupils dilate with fear, darting side to side, searching for some invisible escape. She thrashes, her body small beneath my grip, but my other hand catches her wrist, pinning it against the sheets with calm precision.

The room is suffused with her muffled whimpers, with the frantic rhythm of her breathing beneath my palm. Gradually, though, her fight begins to drain, replaced not with trust, but tremor. I feel the rigid tension in her muscles falter, the raw exhaustion and terror warring within her. Only when the struggle softens do I ease my hand away.

Her voice trembles in the shadows. “P-please… stop doing this. I thought you’d leave me alone…” Her words crack through the silence like fragile glass, and for the first time, the terror between us is thick enough to taste.

Her words hang in the dark, fragile as a thread, trembling just like her voice. I tilt my head, studying her as though she’s some wounded, cornered animal. The fear in her eyes flickers like candlelight, and I can almost feel it radiating back into me.

“Leave you alone?” I whisper, almost laughing, yet not loud enough to break the oppressive quiet of her room. “You know I could never do that. You think about me, don’t you? Even when you tell yourself you don’t… You feel me here.”

She shakes her head desperately, lips forming silent no’s, though her body betrays her, shivering under my gaze.

I release her wrist slowly, deliberately, letting her imagine for a split second that freedom is within reach. Then, with a sudden jerk, I grip the bedframe beside her head, leaning close enough that my breath brushes across her face. The wood groans under the force, and she flinches at the sound.

“You can lie to yourself,” I murmur, my voice low, almost tender, “but those tears—those trembling little pleas—prove you still belong in this dance with me. Without me, you wouldn’t know what it means to be afraid.”

Her body curls inward, instinctively shrinking away, but there’s nowhere left to go. The room feels shrunken now, suffocating, every shadow stretching long and heavy, trapping her beside me.

I linger just long enough to let the silence clamp down again, my presence filling every corner of the space—an unspoken promise that I could vanish into the dark just as easily as I arrived, only to return when she least expects it.

Her breathing grows frantic again, little gasps catching in her throat, but she doesn’t cry out. Maybe she knows it would only make things worse. Maybe some part of her understands that the silence deepens my hold on her more than any scream could.

I straighten slowly, looming over her, and press my palm flat against the mattress near her throat. Not touching—just hovering there, a subtle reminder of how easily I could alter the balance of her fragile world.

“You see,” I murmur, my gaze never leaving hers, “every time you think I’m gone, every time you whisper to yourself that this nightmare is finished—I’m still here. I decide when it ends, not you.”

Her lips part like she wants to reply, but the words die before they can surface. The tremor in her arms betrays her exhaustion, the uselessness of fighting.

Her tears trail silently down her face, and for a long moment, the only sound between us is the fragile rhythm of her breathing—too fast, too shallow. I let the silence stretch, let it coil around her chest like a noose, until she quivers beneath the weight of what remains unsaid.

And then, without warning, I rise to my feet. My shadow peels itself from hers as though I were never here at all. She blinks, startled, not daring to move, not trusting yet that I’m done.

I linger at the doorway, leaning into the frame with that same crooked smirk.

“Sleep lightly, jaan,” I whisper. “Because you’ll never know when I’ll come back.”

The words float in the air like smoke, clinging to the walls, to her trembling frame. I turn the handle slowly, deliberately, and slip out into the darkness of the hall.

The click of the door behind me sounds louder than any scream.