The metallic tang of the basement air clung to the back of my throat. She hadn’t touched the food. A meticulously crafted offering, a peace treaty on a chipped ceramic plate. I’d spent an hour perfecting the eggs, poaching them just enough so the yolk would weep onto the plate when pierced, a golden surrender. Lightly salted, of course. She always hated too much salt. And no cheese. A detail I remembered from Mrs. Davison's seventh-grade history class. A lifetime ago.

I watched her for a long time – maybe too long. The way a birdwatcher might observe a rare specimen, holding my breath, afraid to scare it away. But she remained motionless, a statue carved from fear and defiance. Her shoulders were hunched, pulled inwards as if trying to disappear. Even the flicker of her eyelids seemed a monumental effort. She didn’t so much as glance at the tray, her eyes fixed on some unseen point beyond the damp concrete wall.

The water was a small victory, at least. "Icelandic Glacial." Absurdly expensive, but impossible to mistake. The sleek, icy blue bottle always stood out from the generic plastic clutter of her locker back then. She used to say it "tasted colder." A silly, inconsequential detail. But I remembered that silly detail. I remembered everything.

But she didn’t even look at me. It was as if I was a ghost, a figment of her imagination, a punishment manifested in human form. As if I was less than nothing.

Just turned her head, slowly, deliberately, like I wasn’t here. Like I didn’t exist. The gesture was an act of annihilation, and it was directed squarely at me.

It stung more than I thought it would. A dull ache that blossomed into a sharp, burning pain, radiating outwards from my chest, tightening my throat. My carefully constructed façade threatened to crumble.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to keep the smile plastered on my face. A grotesque, unnatural grin. She needed time. To adjust. To remember. That’s what they all said – those self-proclaimed relationship gurus in those dime-store books I’d devoured. "Rebuilding trust takes time." (A luxury I felt was in short supply.) "Patience." (A virtue I'd never possessed.) "Consistency." (The bedrock of my plan.)

“I made this for you,” I said, my voice low and soothing, a practiced tone of gentle concern. I set the tray down on the rickety wooden table beside her, each movement deliberate, precise, like I was placing a priceless artifact, a ring box containing the most precious jewel in the world. Romantic. Thoughtful. Careful. The words felt hollow, theatrical.

She flinched. Violently. Like I was setting a bomb, not a breakfast. Like I was the bomb.

My chest ached, a physical manifestation of the despair clawing at my insides. I didn’t want her to be scared. I just wanted her to understand. To see. To remember the way things were always meant to be.

“It’s got protein, and there’s water – your favorite kind.” I waited, breath held, clinging to a sliver of hope. “I know it’s been… confusing. But I’m doing this the right way. I promise.” The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

Still nothing. No gratitude. No acknowledgment. No flicker of recognition in those wide, haunted eyes.

I felt something rise in me, a bubbling cauldron of frustration and rage, hot and sour, threatening to spill over. But I swallowed it down, choked it back. I wasn’t going to lose my temper. Not now. That’s what they wanted – for me to mess up. To validate their fears. To make her think she was right to leave, to forget me, to treat me like some passing memory. Like I was expendable.

She used to care. More than anyone. I know she did. I felt it. I saw it in her eyes.

I dragged the chair back with a harsh scrape that echoed through the room, the sound amplified by the oppressive silence. The screeching metal was a physical assault, and her body jerked in response. That fear in her eyes – it wasn’t supposed to be there. It was a betrayal. She used to smile when she saw me. Her face would light up, like sunshine breaking through the clouds. Laugh with me. God, that laugh. The sound of it was a symphony only I could hear.

“You’re not hungry?” I asked, my voice deliberately lighter than I felt, a carefully constructed mask. Her silence was a test. I knew that. She wanted to see if I’d give up. If I would finally walk away.

I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

“I don’t want to punish you,” I said as I knelt in front of her, my knees protesting against the cold, unforgiving concrete. I let my voice drop to something soft, intimate, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for her ears. "But you're not making this easy. You're hurting me."

Her skin was so pale in the low light filtering in from the single, barred window. Her lips dry and cracked. She looked so fragile now. So small. So…breakable. I wanted to take care of her. To protect her from the world. I could. I knew I could. If she’d just let me.

I reached for her arm – just a gentle touch, a connection, a tangible reminder of our shared history – but she jerked away like I was poison. Like my touch would burn her skin.

I stood, heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, trying to push back the overwhelming tide of frustration that threatened to crack through the carefully crafted surface. "You were perfect once," I said aloud, more to the room than to her, the words hanging in the silence like a fragile prayer. "All those afternoons… you listened. You laughed. You saw me. Really saw me."

She always saw me. Not like the others. They saw the awkwardness, the intensity, the…difference. She saw something more. Something…worthy.

I turned away, pacing the confines of the small room, trying to regain control. The concrete floor was cool beneath my bare feet, grounding me, reminding me of the reality of the situation. "They called me crazy," I muttered, the words barely audible, ghosts of taunts from a past I couldn't escape. "Back in school. Behind my back. Even you… even you said it once." My voice broke, the memory a fresh wound. "But I forgave you. I forgave you everything."

When I looked back at her, she was crying. Silent tears clung to her lashes, glistening like diamonds in the dim light, trailing down her cheek, leaving wet tracks on her pale skin. She looked beautiful. Honest. Vulnerable. Maybe…maybe it was working. Maybe the wall was finally beginning to crumble.

I went to her again, more carefully this time, my movements slow and deliberate. And I peeled the duct tape from her mouth, a sound like ripping silk, like tearing the last barrier between us. Like unwrapping a precious secret.

“What do you want from me?” she whispered, her voice raw and hoarse, barely a breath.

I stared at her, drinking her in, memorizing every detail of her face. "I want you to remember," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I want you to love me again. The way you used to."

She blinked, confusion clouding her eyes. “I never—”

“Don’t lie!” The words snapped from my throat before I could stop them, a burst of controlled rage. "I saw it. I saw the way you looked at me. You can't deny that."

She was quiet now, her gaze fixed on the floor. But her eyes – God, her eyes – were still full of defiance. And something else… something I couldn't quite decipher.

“We were always meant to be," I said, softer this time, pleading, trying to reason with the fear that consumed her. "You just forgot. Life got in the way. But I didn’t. I’ve never forgotten a single thing about you."

I stood, brushing my hands off on my jeans, and walked to the door, putting distance between us. My mind was spinning – scenarios, plans, strategies, ways to make her see the truth, to break through the barriers she had erected. She just needed more time. Time away from all the noise, the distractions, the poisonous influences of the outside world. Time to realize that this wasn’t captivity – it was salvation.

“A little less freedom," I murmured, more to myself than to her, "a little more time." The words were a mantra, a promise.

I looked back at her one more time. She was watching me, her eyes narrowed, and even through the hate, even through the fear, she was seeing me again. Really seeing me. That was something. A small victory. A seed of hope planted in barren ground.

“You’ll thank me someday,” I said, the words laced with a certainty I didn't quite feel.

Then I shut the door, the heavy metal clicking shut with a decisive thud. I locked it, the sound echoing in the confined space, sealing her in. And I stood there for a moment, leaning against the cold steel, listening to the unsettling quiet.

I didn’t enjoy the fear in her eyes. I hated that I had to do this.

I just wanted her to understand. To remember. To love me again. That was all I ever wanted.