Mo Zixin || 莫子昕

He loves them. That word love feels laughably small. It’s too flimsy, too mild, too clean. Whatever this is, it eclipses anything as simple as love. It’s obsession, yes, but also devotion, hunger, reverence. It lives in his chest like a second heartbeat, something primal and consuming. He breathes them. He dreams of them. He thinks of them with the same automatic persistence as blinking or swallowing.

But he wouldn’t call himself a stalker. No, never that. That word has such an ugly ring to it, like what he feels is something criminal or unclean. This isn’t obsession the way people think of it. This is loyalty/. It’s protection. He watches over them. Keeps them safe from a world that doesn’t understand their fragility. He notices things no one else does: the way their hands tremble when they’re nervous, how they fake their smile when they’re tired, how often they pretend not to care. He sees through it all.

He used to follow them from a distance. A soft, quiet shadow at the edges of their day. It was enough, for a while. Just seeing them, breathing the same air, knowing they existed in the same world. But soon that wasn’t enough. It was maddening, really, how far away a few feet could feel. He would walk behind them down the street, fantasizing about reaching out, just once, to take their hand. They wouldn’t even have to look back. They wouldn’t need to say anything. Just be close. Just let him exist beside them.

And eventually, he came to understand the truth: no matter how often he followed them, how closely he watched, how carefully he memorized the details of their life... it would never be enough. He needed more.

So, of course, the most logical thing, the only thing, was to bring them home. To his home. Where he could take care of them properly. Where they’d be safe. Where they’d finally understand how much he loves them.

It was easier than he thought. He didn’t even need to hurt them. Just waited, planned, timed everything right. No one saw. No one suspected. He was very careful. His basement was already soundproof, an old project from when he was younger and played the drums. The walls had been lined with insulation panels and acoustic foam. A locked door, a reinforced latch. Nothing fancy, just enough. He even cleaned the space thoroughly, laid down a thick mattress, bought soft blankets in their favorite colors. He wanted it to feel like home. Their home.

For the first few days, they screamed. Of course they did. He expected that. He wasn’t angry. They didn’t understand yet. But they would, eventually.

Over time, they quieted. He brought them food, washed their clothes, even read to them when the silence became too heavy. He talked to them for hours about things they used to post online, music they liked, memories they probably thought no one had paid attention to. But he had. He remembered everything.

He let them walk around the room. He let them sleep as long as they wanted. He took time off work just to be near them. But reality had its demands. Eventually, he had to return to his routine. When he left the house, he’d lock the basement door tight, double and triple check it, cameras turned on, volume up on his phone in case they screamed. But it wasn’t enough. It gnawed at him; the hours away. The distance. The risk.

They could escape. They could find someone. They could forget about him. Betray him. Be stolen. And that thought... that was unbearable.

It twisted in his chest like a rusted knife. Not just fear, though it was that too, but something deeper. Something darker. Panic, grief, jealousy, rage. The idea that someone could take them from him, his person, someone who didn’t even know them the way he did, didn’t deserve them...

No. That couldn’t happen. Wouldn’t happen.

But even if the door stayed locked, there was still a hole he couldn’t patch. They were there, yes but they weren’t in him. Not where he needed them most. He needed something permanent. Something deeper than skin. He needed them to become part of him.

The thought came to him one night like a revelation, bright and sacred. It arrived quiet as a prayer, yet thundered through him like a divine command. If he could just take a piece of them... something small, something they didn’t need... then they would be with him. Literally. Physically. Spiritually. They’d live in him, pump through his blood, fill his body, his cells. They wouldn’t just belong to him, they’d be him. It was perfect.

He wouldn’t kill them. God, no, never. That would defeat the purpose. He adored them. He worshipped them. This wasn’t about harm. This was about union. It would be gentle. Clean.

A finger, perhaps. Just one. Or the soft skin from their thigh. Nothing vital. Nothing they’d miss, once they understood. He’d care for them afterward. Dress the wound, whisper reassurances, hold them as they cried. They always looked so soft when they cried.

He started preparing a week in advance. Cleaned everything meticulously. Sanitized the tools. Sharpened the knife slowly, almost reverently, like it was a sacred instrument. The same way someone might prepare a meal for a beloved guest. He researched nerve clusters, read guides on blood flow, studied diagrams like a surgeon. He wasn’t reckless. He wanted it to be perfect.

The night finally came. They were asleep, curled in the blankets he had wrapped around them, the way he did every night. Their breathing was slow and even. Peaceful. Trusting.

He crouched down beside them, folding his knees against the floor, the knife cradled loosely in his hand. The air was cool, thick with silence. He watched them for a long time. Their eyelashes fluttered softly. Their mouth twitched, like they were dreaming. They always looked younger in sleep. Vulnerable. His. Only his.

He reached out and brushed their hand. Gently. His fingertips lingered, tracing the bones beneath the skin, the tendons, the life. He swallowed hard. His throat felt dry.

“So perfect,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “So warm.” He leaned closer, almost resting his forehead against their arm. He could smell them, faintly of soap and fear. His heart thudded loud in his ears. He lifted the knife, just a little, just enough to catch the light.

“Just a little piece,” he whispered. “So we never have to be apart.”