Chapter 7 — The Moment It Shifts
It doesn't happen in one big, dramatic explosion.
It's a whisper of doubt, a single thought she finally lets finish in her head:
*This isn't care. This is control.*
He's in the doorway of her kitchen again, talking about nothing in particular — a recipe, the weather — but his eyes keep drifting to her phone on the counter. Every time the screen lights up, even from a calendar reminder, his gaze hardens.
When she picks it up, he says softly, "Can't you look at me instead?"
The words sound almost tender, but they slide under her skin like a hook.
She forces a smile. "I just need to check something."
He steps closer. "You don't need to check anything when you're with me."
And for the first time, the way he says *with me* doesn't sound safe; it sounds like a lock clicking shut.
After he leaves, she doesn't cry. She just sits there, staring at the door, until the silence stops feeling like peace and starts feeling like a warning.
Her mind starts cataloguing things she never noticed before:
* the way he knows what routes she takes to work;
* how her spare key disappeared the same week he started "dropping by";
* how her friends stopped texting altogether.
She opens her laptop and changes her passwords. One by one. Hands shaking.
Halfway through, a message pops up on her screen.
> **Eli:** Miss you already.
She doesn't reply.
For the first time, she lets the message sit unanswered. Her heart races, waiting for the next buzz, the next question, the next quiet accusation.
It doesn't come.
And in that small pocket of silence, she realizes something she's never allowed herself to think before:
if she can go one night without answering him, maybe she can go two.
Maybe she can go *for good.*
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