Only five days left, and somehow, time feels like it’s moving slower than ever.

He's becoming stranger, in ways that I can’t quite wrap my mind around. He’s acting soft, almost gentle with me—and the fact that I find this behavior weird says a lot about the impression he’s left on me. I didn’t expect any softness from him, not after everything he’s done, everything he’s shown me about who he really is.

Maybe things started shifting that day. Maybe he’s finally noticed how much his cruelty has affected me. Perhaps he’s softened because he saw the trauma he inflicted, or maybe he’s realized that I was never at fault to begin with—that it’s all a product of his own misguided assumptions, his projections. But this sudden change, this unexpected softness, feels almost as troubling as his previous coldness.

Still, I can’t ignore that every benefit seems to come with a hidden cost. He may be gentler, yes, but now he’s becoming uncomfortably persistent, trying to engage me in conversation at every turn. He’s opening up, sharing things, asking me questions. It’s as if he’s trying to draw me closer, hoping to break down my defenses. I do my best to avoid him, shutting down his attempts to talk, to connect. But his constant efforts, this insistence on breaking the silence, are becoming another form of torment. I don't want to talk to him; I don’t want any of this.

For the past two days, his behavior has been unusually gentle and attentive. He’s more mindful, especially in bed, softening his touch, careful not to impose any discomfort or cause me pain. It’s almost as if he's balancing his desire with a new sense of protectiveness, keeping control but tempering his intensity. He’s still insistent, still passionate, but his actions feel thoughtful, each move measured.

When I ask him to stop or say I've had enough, he becomes even softer, almost coaxing me, as though the decision lies in my hands—a kind of permission he’s never really allowed me before. He stays close, attentive, and soothing, especially in those moments when I’m at my most vulnerable, right after climax. If any tremors run through me, his demeanor changes immediately, switching to a tenderness that feels almost protective. He’ll rub my arms, grounding me, offering comfort with steady, gentle strokes.

The kisses are constant, scattered over my face, creating a feeling of intimacy that lingers long after. Marks remain on my body, subtle reminders of our time together. Yet now, those marks feel less like the remnants of passion and more like traces of a deeper connection, a tenderness that I hadn’t felt so clearly before. His closeness, his care—it’s as if he’s showing me a side of him I never expected, a side that prioritizes my comfort above all else.

At first, I didn’t fully understand it. I let him embrace me as usual having no choice, his hands brushing over my skin with a careful softness. But as the days went by, something within me shifted. I began to resist, gently pushing his hands away when they lingered too long. An unease crept in, a subtle but growing sense of doubt. His tenderness, once reassuring, now left me feeling exposed, vulnerable. It was as if he was trying to hold me a little too close, his gaze heavy with something I couldn’t quite place—a hint of possessiveness masked in concern. I couldn’t shake the feeling that if he crossed a certain line, I might be trapped, bound to him in ways I couldn’t escape.

For three days, his strange attentiveness lingered, unshakable yet undeniably gentle. When he left that morning, he’d paused by the door, his tone unusually warm as he assured her he’d return soon. It wasn’t what he said that unsettled her—it was the implication that his presence mattered to her. She didn’t know why it made her uneasy, but she couldn’t help seeing his care as an imposition, a soft pressure that she didn’t ask for.

That evening, as always, he returned. Dinner was a quiet affair—pleasant, though the sweetness of the food seemed to echo the undercurrent of his persistent attention. Afterward, he suggested a walk in the garden, a casual offer she reluctantly accepted. She didn’t have the energy to refuse, not when his patience had been so measured.

They strolled beneath the moonlight, his voice filling the silences with observations and small stories. She barely responded, but it didn’t seem to bother him—until suddenly, it did.

“Why are you always so silent?” he asked, his tone quiet but direct. “Why don’t you talk to me?”

She stopped walking, startled by the unexpected question. Usually, he was content to fill the air with his own words. But now, with his attention fully focused on her, she felt cornered. What could she possibly say? And why did he care so much about what she didn’t say?

She took a steadying breath and answered honestly, unable to keep the frustration from her voice.

“My words don’t matter,” she said. “Just like my pleas. Did you ever even hear them?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. He blinked, his face briefly shadowed with surprise. Then his expression softened, though there was something almost self-aware in the way he smiled.

“I love how, even when you rarely speak, your words make an impact.”

He stepped closer, adjusting the scarf on her shoulders with a care that felt too personal. She turned her face away.

“What about now?” he asked, his voice drawing her back.

“What?”

“What if I listen to you now? Would you talk to me?”

She frowned, unsure how to respond. His persistence felt genuine, yet it left her wary. Why now? Why this sudden interest in her words when he’d always seemed content with her silence?

“What do you want to talk about? And why?” she asked cautiously.

He shrugged, his hands in his pockets, his stride easy as they resumed walking. “I just want to know more about you. That’s all.”

“There’s nothing you don’t already know,” she replied, her voice quieter now.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “You’re wrong. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met. You’re like the ocean—deep, mysterious. I just want to understand you better.”

His words, though earnest, made her uneasy. She quickened her pace slightly, hoping to outdistance the conversation. But he kept up effortlessly, his tone unyielding.

“So, tell me,” he pressed.

“Tell you what?”

“What if I listen now? Will you listen to me too? Will you talk to me?”

The cool night breeze ruffled their hair, the moonlight breaking through the clouds. She stopped again, turning to face him fully. Her shawl fluttered in the wind as she tugged it tighter around her shoulders.

“Then don’t touch me,” she said, her voice firm. “Not for the remaining days.”

Her demand hung in the air, sharp and unyielding. She half-expected him to push back, to laugh or dismiss her. But he didn’t. Instead, he studied her carefully, his expression unreadable.

“Would you listen to this?” she tested him.

“Yes,” he said.

A moment of silence has passed.

“What?”

“Yes. I won’t touch you—except for kissing,” he added, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “Then… would you talk to me?”

His response left her momentarily speechless. She had expected defiance or a cunning trick not this strange willingness to compromise.

"Will you?"

He asked again, his voice softer this time, his eyes holding a flicker of hope. He wanted a positive answer—needed it, even.

Her demand that he should not touch her had caught him off guard, leaving him reeling. It wasn’t a small ask for him; it was devastating. Watching her move around him, so close yet untouchable, felt like a torment he hadn’t prepared for.

It wasn’t just about the physical connection, though he loved the closeness they shared. Every touch, every small gesture, was a way for him to express what he struggled to put into words. Her presence grounded him, reassured him. To deny himself that connection was a kind of quiet agony.

But her body wasn’t all he cared for—far from it. He wanted to know her, truly know her. He already understood parts of her, perhaps more than she realized. Yet he longed for more: to hear her thoughts, to share conversations that felt real and unguarded, to see her smile without the weight of hesitation.

He wanted her to feel safe enough to let him in, to stop keeping him at arm’s length as though he were a stranger. She had built walls around herself, firm and unyielding, and he respected them even as they frustrated him.

The silence stretched between them, and he waited, his heart pounding with the weight of his request. He didn’t know what her answer would be, but he knew one thing for certain: he was willing to give up more than she realized to hear her voice, to have her open up to him.

“Yes,” she said finally.

She hesitated, feeling the weight of his question. If talking could buy her some distance, she would do it. Even if a part of her worried that opening this door would only complicate things further.