The memory of this morning still clung to me, sharp and bright. She looked right at me, a fleeting connection as she walked to her car. Eyes full of something she didn’t even understand yet. Not fear, not recognition of a shared past, or even the subtle dance the universe had woven between us. Just... the beginning. The nascent flutter of understanding that was on the cusp of blooming into something beautiful, something real.

But the detectives were getting too close. Too loud. Trampling through her life with their clumsy questions and intrusive glances. Standing at her door like they belonged there, their presence a violation I could feel down to my bones. And worse — she let them in. I watched through the peephole, the warped lens distorting their already ugly intentions. Watched them plant seeds of doubt in her head, turn her world sideways with their accusations and insinuations. They showed her the photo.

My photo. A taken out of context image ripped from my social media. They made me look like some stranger.

I didn’t want it to go like this. Not yet. Not before she could truly understand. I wanted more time to prepare her. To nurture the connection, to prune away the weeds of the outside world. To show her, gently, how perfect we are when the noise falls away, when the world shrinks down to just us, just our intertwined souls.

But she’s scared now. I could see it in her stiff posture, in the way she avoided my gaze the last time I saw her from a distance.

They’re making her doubt me. Poisoning her mind with their lies and their distortions. Erasing the memories we did share. Making her believe what we had wasn't love as I always thought it was.

And I can’t have that. I won't have that.

I moved through the building like a ghost, a shadow born of the city's underbelly. Not a creak of the old floorboards betrayed my presence. Not a breath escaped my lips. I knew which cameras were real, their red eyes constantly scanning, and which were just for show, plastic shells meant to deter petty theft. Knew the back exit near the boiler room, the one they always swore they'd fix, never latched right. I’d tested it for weeks, over and over, in the dark, the metallic tang of fear and anticipation coating my tongue.

The city taught me patience, taught me to blend, to observe. Havenwood, with its labyrinthine woods and forgotten trails, taught me how to disappear, how to move through the world unseen.

I waited outside her door, pressed against the cold metal, listening. Every strained cough, every muffled sob, sent a jolt of pain through me.

Her pacing had stopped. The rhythmic thud of her footsteps was replaced by an unnerving silence. Silence wrapped around the apartment like a suffocating veil, a premonition of the quiet I knew I had to restore. She was probably curled on the couch, still trying to make sense of what they said. Still trying to understand how she could end up in the middle of something like this, a narrative that wasn't true, but they were forcing on her.

She didn’t lock it.

Not well, anyway. The cheap bolt offered only the illusion of security. A child could have jimmied it. I'd expected, perhaps even hoped, for more resistance.

I slipped inside, the muted click of the door closing behind me echoing in the suddenly immense space.

The living room glowed with the soft light of the TV, the screen flickering with static images, a kaleidoscope of meaningless noise. A forgotten glass of water sweating on the table, rings of condensation forming a miniature map of her anxiety. Her blanket was pushed off the couch, twisted and knotted like she’d tossed it in a panic, a physical manifestation of the turmoil churning inside her.

She was standing near the window, looking out like the street could offer her answers, like the unfeeling concrete and passing cars held some secret resolution to her confusion.

She didn’t hear me until it was too late. My approach was silent. Smooth. Inevitable.

“Lily.”

She turned, her movements sluggish, as if she were moving through water.

Her face went pale — not screaming, gut-wrenching fear, just stunned disbelief. She said my name like it was a question, a hesitant inquiry directed at a ghost. “Ethan?”

There was something sharp in her voice, a jagged edge of betrayal just beneath the surface. She knew, or at least suspected, somewhere deep down, that this was wrong. That the picture they were painting was a lie.

But I couldn’t stop now. I'd gone too far. The wheels were in motion. The connection HAD to be re-established.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. And I meant it, with every fiber of my being. Sorry that they forced me to do this, sorry that she had to experience this confusion, this fear. “You shouldn’t be afraid. I’m going to take care of you. I'm saving you".

Her mouth opened, a silent scream forming on her lips, but I moved faster — the cloth, saturated with the subtle scent of lavender to soothe, the panic in her eyes widening, liquid pools of terror. She kicked, a desperate flail against the inevitable. Elbowed, a sharp, jarring blow that barely registered. Fought like I knew she would. A testament to her spirit, a spirit I would protect. It didn’t matter. I caught her as she went limp, her struggles fading like dying embers, arms falling like string, her body surrendering to the darkness.

She’s with me now.

Tied, yes, but tied with the bonds of love, of protection. Safe from the outside world, from their lies and manipulations. Home. Where she belongs.

I keep checking the rearview mirror, my eyes drawn to her reflection like a moth to a flame. Not to make sure she’s still there — I know she is, I can feel her presence radiating through the car — but just to look at her. Her head slumped gently to the side, her breathing soft and even. Her hair like gold in the dim light, a halo of innocence. She looks peaceful again, finally free from the anxiety that had been gnawing at her.

She’ll wake up confused, disoriented. Maybe scared, at first.

But I’ll explain everything, calmly, patiently. I’ll show her the truth, the reality that they tried to erase.

We used to be inseparable. Best friends. Soulmates. People forget that. They only see what they want to see.

I never did.

She’ll remember soon. I know she will.

I’ll remind her of the inside jokes, of the shared dreams, of the connection that ran deeper than anything they could ever understand.

And then she’ll see...

This isn’t a kidnapping. This isn't me being a monster. It's them making me look like one.

It’s a reunion. A homecoming. A chance to rewrite the narrative, to reclaim our story, to finally be together, forever.