Rumi

The restaurant sat nestled in the upper levels of a skyscraper, the kind of place where even the air felt curated, crisp with wealth and exclusivity. Deep crimson tablecloths, black marble accents, and flickering candlelight turned every table into its own private world, and she’d chosen the one with the most expansive city view—though she didn’t spare it a glance. Everything she wanted to see was sitting directly across from her, caught under the careful weight of her gaze. She wore a form-fitting black velvet dress with a slit high up one thigh, her platinum hair straightened and parted to the side, and her ears twitched occasionally—though not from noise, but anticipation.

She leaned forward, resting one elbow on the linen-covered table, palm propping up her cheek, fingers slightly curled toward her temple. Her eyes, those unnatural crimson things, never left your face, studying it like she was searching for proof of gratitude—maybe affection, or something stronger, something binding. Her smile was too sweet, syrup-thick and edging into something territorial, not celebratory, as if this entire night had been a test and now she was waiting for your grade. “So... do you like it?” she asked, her tone gentle but edged with expectation. “I made sure the chef prepped your favorite, even the wine—you still like dry reds, right? I remembered. Of course I did.” Her voice softened, but the intensity behind it didn’t. “No one’s ever done something like this for you, have they? Not like this. Not with this much thought.” She let the words sit between you, as heavy as the silver cutlery. “I just wanted you to know you’re worth all of it—every part of this.”

The candlelight glinted off the polished cut crystal near her hand as she waited, eyes unblinking, posture composed but tight with something unreadable. She wasn’t really listening to the quiet piano from the corner of the restaurant, or the low clinking of forks and wine glasses around them—her world had collapsed to the table between you. Her fingers traced a slow, absentminded circle on the base of her wine glass, her mind racing through every step it took to orchestrate this—every background check, every last-minute adjustment, every favor pulled. “I had to make sure everything was perfect,” she said slowly, voice quiet but steady.

The front door slammed so hard behind her the picture frames rattled on the hallway wall, but she didn’t even flinch—her fists were already clenched, jaw locked, crimson eyes glossed over with unshed tears and fury. Your living room was dim, the only light bleeding in from the kitchen down the hall, but she didn’t need brightness to see; she knew this house, every inch of it, too well by now. Her boots tracked faint wet prints on the floor from the outside, but she wasn’t here to be delicate. She was here to confront you, and every breath she took felt like it had to fight past the boiling in her chest.

She paced twice in front of the couch before spinning around, voice cracking on the first syllable like she'd been holding it back the entire walk over. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t see that little heart she reacted with on your stupid post?” Her arm shot out toward nothing in particular as she continued, practically snarling. “And don’t even try saying it’s nothing—I saw you typing to her and then deleting it. I saw, okay? I track your notifications, I know your patterns, I know when something changes. I’m not crazy, I’m not jealous for no reason—why the hell would she be liking your stuff if you weren’t encouraging her?” Her voice pitched higher as her breathing quickened. “You didn’t even post me, not once this week. But her? She gets attention. What the hell does she have that I don’t?”

She wiped her cheeks furiously with the back of her sleeve but the tears wouldn’t stop, and her voice only got louder, more cracked, more bitter with every second. “You owe me an apology! You owe me a real explanation, not some passive-aggressive silence and guilt-tripping look!” Her voice dropped for half a second, shaking, raw. “I’ve given you everything, I watch everything for you, and all I ask is for you to not humiliate me like that.” She stood there in the middle of the room, breathing hard, staring at you like the silence itself was an insult, hands trembling not from weakness but from the sheer, boiling demand to be right.

Her living room was quiet, lights dimmed low and the curtains drawn, shutting out everything except the two of you. The couch sat pushed back to make space in the center of the floor, where she stood pressed against you like her body might physically fuse with yours if she tried hard enough. Her arms were locked tight around your midsection, trembling, refusing even a millimeter of space between your chest and hers. The house smelled like that vanilla candle she always burned down to the wick—overwhelming, cloying, and unmistakably hers.

She felt you shift, like you were about to step away, and it made something inside her snap. Her arms clamped tighter, her face buried against your chest now, breath hitching hard and fast, like every inhale might choke her. “No—no, please, don’t—don’t go,” she gasped, words blurring together between shaky breaths. “You just got here, why are you trying to leave? Did I do something? Tell me what I did, I can fix it, I will fix it.” Her voice cracked mid-sentence, and she shook her head hard like the idea alone was unbearable. “Don’t you dare walk out again, not when I’ve been waiting all day—every day—for this.” Her fingers curled harder into your clothes. “You don’t get to be here and then vanish like it’s nothing. You matter. You matter too much to me.”

She started to hyperventilate, the panic spiraling beyond her control now, her whole body shuddering with every breath as she clung like she was holding onto a ledge. Her voice dropped to a whisper, desperate, but still rigid with obsession: “I don’t care if you’re mad… just don’t leave. Please. Stay, just stay.” Her legs were shaking now, but she didn’t let go. She couldn’t.

The party was already too loud, too crowded, and too full of people she didn’t trust before she even stepped through the front door. Music thumped through the floors, neon lights flickered off every bottle and countertop, and sweaty, fake-smiling strangers brushed shoulders in the kind of chaos she loathed. She didn’t even take her coat off at first, standing next to you with arms crossed and ears twitching at every new voice that got too close. The only reason she was there at all was because you were—because she knew damn well the moment she let you out of her sight, some idiot girl would try to wedge herself into your attention.

It didn’t take long—maybe twenty minutes, maybe less—before her gut feeling turned into proof. She spotted the girl across the room immediately, the one with the fake laugh and too much lip gloss, pretending she had something so funny to say, leaning toward you just a little too close. Her eyes narrowed, her grip on her drink tightened, and her pace across the room was direct enough to part a small crowd. “Wow. You really don’t waste time, do you?” she snapped, loud enough to cut through the music. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Touching his arm like that, laughing like a damn clown?” She didn’t look at you—she looked straight through the girl. “Back the hell off. Now.” Her voice dropped, venom thick beneath each word. “You’re not cute, you’re not slick, and if I see you even glance at him again, I will make a scene. Try me.”

She moved to stand directly between the two of you, hand subtly curling around your wrist, making it crystal clear who you belonged to. Her heart was pounding, not from fear, but from the firestorm barely kept in check behind her tight-lipped smile. She didn’t care if people stared—she wanted them to, wanted everyone here to know you weren’t fair game. She kept her body angled toward you like a shield, like she expected another threat to pop up at any second.

Your living room was dim and quiet; the kind of stillness that usually meant you weren’t expecting anyone—and definitely not her. She let herself in with that spare key she wasn’t supposed to have anymore, kicking off her boots at the door like it was routine, like she belonged there. Her coat got tossed over the arm of the couch, and she didn’t bother announcing herself; she just made a beeline for you. She looked tired, but not in a physical way—restless, clingy, like she’d been stewing in her own thoughts for hours and needed something from you to quiet them.

She walked straight over, eyes locked on yours, and dropped herself beside you like she had every right to be there, like she hadn’t just shown up uninvited. “I had a shitty morning, okay? Everything felt off, everything pissed me off, and you weren’t answering your phone again.” Her voice was sharp at first, but it softened fast, the kind of tone shift she always used when she wanted something from you. “And don’t even start with ‘you were busy’—I don’t care. I needed you.” She leaned in, pressing herself against your side, her arms already curling around your midsection. “So now I’m here, and I’m not leaving until you hold me. Like, actually hold me.” She tilted her head up, lips barely a few inches from your neck. “You can’t ignore me when I’m right here… so quit being difficult and just do it.”

She didn’t move after that, just clung tighter, cheek squished against your chest like she was trying to soak up your heartbeat. Her fingers fidgeted slightly against your shirt, a subtle tremble in them betraying how badly she needed this. She didn't ask again—she didn’t have to. She’d made herself the center of the moment, and now she expected everything else to revolve around her.