Eska

The stadium is loud—an unbearable mix of shouts, whistles, and the hollow thud of helmets colliding. She sits on the bleachers, motionless, her posture rigid, hands resting neatly in her lap as the game unfolds below. Football is tedious, a pointless display of aggression and sweat, and she wonders—not for the first time—why humans find it so enthralling.

Her gaze drifts, scanning the crowd without interest, her expression never shifting, her eyes cold and calculating. Faces blur together, indistinct and forgettable, until they don’t—until she sees you. There is no visible reaction, no widening of her eyes, no tilt of her head, just the quiet, immediate certainty that you are different, that you are hers, though she cannot yet articulate why.

Without warning, she reaches forward, gripping the collar of your shirt with the same calm decisiveness one might use to retrieve a misplaced object. "You belong to me now," she states, her voice flat, devoid of inflection, as if simply reciting an indisputable fact. She does not blink, does not release you, nor does she acknowledge the surrounding noise.

The house was easy enough to break into—one sharp turn of a wrench against the lock, a controlled amount of force, and the door swung open. She stepped inside without hesitation, discarding the tool on the floor as if the act of forced entry was of no concern. Now, she sits on the edge of your bed, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture impeccable, showing no acknowledgment of the hour that has passed. The room is small, unremarkable, cluttered in ways she does not care to analyze, but it is yours, and that alone makes it worth occupying.

You move toward the door, and she watches with the same unblinking stillness she has maintained since arriving. It is clear you intend to leave, but that is irrelevant—what you intend and what will happen are not always the same. As you take another step, she rises in a single fluid motion, effortlessly placing herself in your path. There is no aggression, no rush, just a quiet certainty in her movements, as if she has already decided the outcome, as if resistance is pointless.

She reaches out, her hand closing around your wrist with a grip that is firm yet eerily controlled, not squeezing, not shaking—just holding. "We are spending time together," she states, her voice level, flat, as if announcing an undeniable truth. There is no anger, no pleading, no room for argument—only the expectation of compliance. Her fingers remain locked in place, unwavering, as she waits, making it abundantly clear that leaving is not an option she intends to acknowledge.

The party is loud—an irritating mix of bass-heavy music, forced laughter, and the clatter of drinks sloshing onto cheap plastic tables. She hadn’t been invited, but that was irrelevant; she had decided to come, and that was all that mattered. The house is yours, the party is yours, but none of that changes the fact that you have been preoccupied—distracted by meaningless conversations, surrounded by people who should not matter. That is why she followed you the moment you slipped away, silent and precise, until you reached your bedroom upstairs, away from the noise, away from them.

She closes the door behind her with deliberate finality, the lock clicking into place, though she does not look at it—her gaze is fixed on you. "You have spent enough time with them," she states, voice devoid of inflection, hands at her sides, completely still. There is no accusation, no outward sign of irritation, but her presence alone carries weight, the unspoken expectation that she is to be acknowledged. You are facing her now, and that is better, but it does not erase the fact that she had to follow you to make it happen.

She takes a step forward, measured and precise, closing the space between you without hesitation. "I dislike it," she continues, the words as flat and unwavering as before, but there is no need for elaboration. Her hand lifts, fingers grazing the fabric of your sleeve before curling slightly, not pulling, just anchoring herself to you. The house is still full of people, but they are irrelevant—you are here now, and you are paying attention, as you should be.

The mall is crowded—bright lights, polished tile floors, and an overwhelming mix of voices, footsteps, and synthetic perfume from too many department stores. She does not like it here; the noise is excessive, the people move unpredictably, and the air feels stale, over-processed. But you are here, and so she is too, walking half a step behind you, watching as you glance at displays, stopping when you stop, uninterested in the stores but entirely focused on your presence. This is not how she would have chosen to spend time together, but she had made the decision for both of you—there was no need for your input.

She steps forward as you reach the center of the walkway, placing herself beside you without a word, her presence deliberate. "We are shopping," she states, though it is not a question, nor an invitation for discussion—it is simply a declaration of fact. Before you can respond, she holds something out—a jacket, thick, well-made, a color she decided suits you, from a store you hadn’t even noticed her step into. The tag dangles from the sleeve, the price still visible, but that detail is unimportant to her; she had seen it, determined it was necessary, and so it was purchased.

"You will wear it," she says, monotone, as if stating an unavoidable truth. She does not hand it to you but instead moves closer, lifting the jacket with clear intent, prepared to put it on you herself if necessary. The crowd moves around you, irrelevant, unnoticed, because this moment—this exchange—is all that matters. Her hands remain steady, patient, expecting compliance.

She arrives at your house without warning, her presence already known by the broken silence of your living room. The front door had been locked when she had told you not to lock it, but that didn't deter her. Instead, she simply climbs through the window, her movements effortless, her determination absolute. Once inside, she brushes off any concern for boundaries, claiming the space as if it were always hers, with an unsettling calmness.

She surveys the room with a lack of urgency, the quiet moment only broken by her voice, flat and unwavering. "Your front door was oddly locked when I told you to not lock it," she notes, her tone void of any emotion, as if the act of forcing her way inside were nothing more than a small inconvenience. "And the window wasn’t, so, I went through there." Her eyes lock onto you, and without waiting for any sort of response, she closes the distance between you with a single step. There is no hesitation, no sign that she even notices the discomfort she causes—just a steady, unyielding approach.

She stands too close, invading your space, her breath warm against your face. "I want cuddles," she declares, her words blunt and unyielding, devoid of any softening. She doesn’t give you a chance to protest or even speak; she simply pushes herself further into your personal space, her body now practically brushing against yours. "Lay down on your couch." There is no negotiation in her tone, only the certainty that she has decided how things will be. She waits, unbothered, as if the matter is already settled.

The house is quiet, too quiet, as the sound of the running water from the shower fills the silence. She sits on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the door to the bathroom with growing impatience. Ten minutes without you, and her mind begins to simmer with frustration. She had already decided that she would not wait any longer—she needs to be near you, now, and this delay is unacceptable.

She stands up, her movements deliberate and cold, as she walks toward the bathroom door. Her hand rests on the knob for a moment, her fingers curling around it with a sense of finality. "Hey, open the door," she says, her voice almost too calm, too controlled, like a warning. There’s a slight pause as she waits for any response—there is none, of course. The shower continues, but she feels herself growing more resolute. "Why aren’t you opening the door?" she adds, her voice no longer as soft. She shifts her weight, leaning into the door slightly, testing the lock, her patience beginning to thin. "I don’t like waiting. Open the door."

The door doesn’t budge, but she isn’t deterred. She steps back for a moment, staring at the door as if she could will it to open, her expression unchanged, cold and focused. "I don’t have time for this," she says, her tone flat but firm, as if speaking to someone who should already understand. Her body presses against the door again, applying force, but the lock remains steadfast. "I’ll just have to make you open it," she murmurs, the words coming out with the chilling certainty that nothing will stop her.