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A man breaks down my front door, wanders through my flat like he owns the place, opens my drawers, finds my suitcase, and starts packing my belongings without so much as asking whether I’d like to go anywhere in the first place.
The sheer absurdity of it leaves me rooted to the spot, wondering whether he’s completely delusional or whether I’ve finally lost my own mind.
“Where’s the colours, solnyshko? Why do you own so much black?” He grumbles, seemingly unbothered by the stunned look on my face.
He’s rummaging through my wardrobe, sighing every time another black jumper, black T-shirt, or black pair of trousers appears in his hands.
He reaches the second-to-last drawer and my breath hitches when he pulls out a pink halter dress hidden beneath the pile of some more black items.
Then he smiles.
“Put it back.” I all but scream.
He ignores me. “Is pink your favourite colour?”
“I said put it back.” I argue but he shakes his head.
“It is.” He concludes with a satisfied nod, like he’s just cracked an international conspiracy. “You’ve hidden all the evidence at the bottom of the wardrobe.”
I gape at him. “How is that your conclusion?”
“Because,” he replies matter-of-factly, folding the dress with infuriating care before placing it into the suitcase. “People don’t hide the things they hate.”
“Maybe I hate it so much I don’t even want to look at it.” I fold my hand. “Like you.”
That stills him. He turns slowly. “You hate me?” The smile is still there.
Barely.
It’s wavering at the edges, and for the first time since he’d broken into my flat, he looks…uncertain.
“I think you need to leave.” I reply instead but he doesn’t make a move towards the door.
He doesn’t so much as glance at me, his shoulders taut as he opens the last drawer and pauses only for a second before digging out my underwear and bra.
“Hey.” I nearly shriek, lunging forward. “What the hell are you doing, pervert?” My hand lands on his shoulder as I pull him away from it and stand as a barrier between him and the drawer.
“I’m not tolerating this shit anymore. You—” I jab my finger at him. “Need to leave.”
“I will, once you’re ready.” He smirks, seemingly recovering from whatever that was. “We need to leave.”
“Huh?”
His lips twitch. “We’re leaving.”
“Huh?” is all I manage, too busy watching the slow smile spread across his face.
“Your door is broken; you cannot stay here. It’s unsafe.” “Because you broke it.”
“I’m aware.” He shrugs, already walking towards the bathroom like he has a free pass to roam around my house.
“What do you mean, you’re aware?”
He glances back. “I mean I was present at the crime scene, Elara.” He starts rummaging through the shelves. “I’m also prepared to provide excellent aftercare.”
“Right. You can start by fixing the door and leaving.” I try again; my words falling on deaf ears because he doesn’t even react to it.
Just as he reaches for the drawer—the wrong drawer—I stop him.
