It all began at a Halloween party.
Four people dead.
No evidence-only suspects.
Every pair of eyes hid secrets, every mouth spun a different tale. Yet no one stepped forward.
Chrissey Shwan, a 20-year-old medical student, was already caged by a life...
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It's been four days. Four whole days, and he hasn't come.
I stopped counting the hours. They only stretch the silence longer.
But every morning, just as the light shifts through that tiny slit in the wall, I walk up to the door-press my eye against the peephole. And there it is. That little plant.
A fragile thing. Green. Still alive.
It's grown just enough to sway in the wind, like it's waving at me-talking to me in whispers only I can hear. I tell myself it's real. That it wants me to keep holding on. The peephole is small and the glass is cloudy, but I see enough. Enough to feel like the world is still out there. Enough to breathe.
And yet, he hasn't come.
I don't know if he will. That's the thing about him-he's a mystery that never reveals itself fully. You only ever get fragments. Pieces that don't quite fit together.
The last time I saw him... he was calm. Too calm.
He didn't speak. Just walked in with that needle-gentle, almost loving. He brushed my hair behind my ear and said, "This won't hurt... much." Then the cold rush of anesthesia pulled me under. Like drowning, but soft.
When I woke up, I noticed he had done my nails. Perfectly shaped. Pale pink polish. I don't know why, but that unsettled me more than the drugs.
He had changed my clothes. I'm wearing the ocean blue dress now-his favorite.
He says it's the color I wore the first time he saw me. Not met-saw. I didn't even know he existed back then. A blue mini dress, short sleeves, no jacket. I remember because I was cold that night.
According to him, that's when he fell in love.
Sometimes, I sit here and ask myself-how can someone who looks so gentle... be so cruel? How can someone with such soft eyes, such a boyish face, become the reason I don't know if I'll ever be free again?
And the scariest part?
He doesn't see it as cruelty. He thinks this is love.
I remember the first time I saw him.
It was in Vietnam, inside a tiny convenience store tucked between rain-slick alleys and neon lights. I wasn't looking for anything special-just a place to escape the humid night. But then... there he was.
He wore a baby pink shirt, soft and slightly wrinkled, clinging to his frame like it belonged there. His arms were overloaded with plastic bags-so many, they dangled from every finger, stretched and wobbling like they'd burst. He looked like he was barely holding it together.
His brown hair was a chaotic mess, falling into his eyes, brushing against his glasses, which barely hung onto the bridge of his nose. And then there was the strawberry lollipop-tucked between his lips, making them look unnaturally soft, glossy, and... tempting.
