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The first day I thought she was avoiding me.

The second day I learned she could’ve done that while coming to campus.

By the third, I was done waiting.

So I broke another rule and unlocked the front door to her flat with the key I stole months ago with absolutely no intention of ever breaking in.

During the day, she’s holed up in her bathroom and comes out with a towel wrapped around her body, three times day. Three. Fucking. Times.

Who showers that often? And I regret not planting the fucking cameras in the bathroom.

Then she changes her clothes and hides under the thick covers. The curtains are always closed, her lights are turned off, irrespective of the time.

Her flat is eerily quiet, it feels abandoned. I make my way towards her room with practised ease and twist the handle before stepping in.

There she is, curled up in her bed. The moon spills only a sliver of light through the gap in the curtains, leaving the rest of the room to the darkness. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust.

Her hair fans wildly across the pillow, a few golden strands clinging to her cheek. My fingers twitch with the urge to tuck them behind her ear.

She murmurs something and I bend down, my knees on the ground as my hands rests on the mattress next to her face.

Only her face peeks out from beneath the duvet. For months I’d wondered what she’d look like this close. Except, I’m not satisfied because even while sleeping, she seems in pain.

Entirely different from when she fainted three nights ago. She was snuggling in my arms, her breath hitting my neck, a teeny-tiny corner of my heart might’ve melted.

Fine. My entire heart was on fire.

The only reason I slipped my T-shirt over her shoulders was because when I was driving her home, she slumped in the seat at an awkward angle, her left tit almost springing free from the thin bandeau.

And while I would eat that shit up, she wasn’t ready for it, yet.

I could see the glimpse of her pink nipple, my grip tightened on the steering wheel to the point of my knuckles turning white.

My hand moved, I was telling myself that I was going to only fix her top but who was I kidding?

I wanted to grope her, I wanted to kiss her, I wanted to suck the life out of her through her gorgeous, impeccable tits.

Instead, I lifted a hand and slapped myself on my left cheek.

Fuck.

Coming back to my senses, I removed my T-shirt and pulled it over her head.

She doesn’t need a predator.

I wanted to protect her from everything, from this cruel world. But I know I was late then, I am late now.

Her body language speaks of all the mental battles she’s fought; I know what an entire body shut down looks like, I’ve seen it countless times to forget.

Mama would always give up after Vasily’s first hit, she knew saving herself was a losing battle, one she didn’t want to take part in. She would completely close off, as if my dad was beating a lifeless body.

The abuse must’ve started long before I came into existence because I never saw her telling my father to stop, not that he would.

The concept of fight or flight is for those who have something to fight for, my mama didn’t.

Not even me.

That night in the fight club, Elara’s body resembled Mama’s before she lost consciousness. The whimper was only a sign of her being alive when her brain had checked out.