I always thought we were aligned, at least in the ways that mattered. We were both young, both chasing our Master’s degrees, both exhausted and fueled by caffeine and quiet ambition. She lived in metaphors and colors, in stories that bent reality into something beautiful. I lived in logic, in equations and certainty. And somehow, we met in the middle—writing. Fiction. It was our thing. Late nights, shared drafts, soft laughs over awkward sentences. She was better than me, undeniably so. Her words didn’t just tell stories—they wrapped around you, pulled you in, made you feel things you didn’t expect. I admired that. I loved her. And I trusted her. At least… I thought I did.
She always had a darker edge to her writing, though. Not obvious at first—more like something hiding beneath the surface, something you only noticed if you looked too long. I knew she liked more extreme themes, things I personally didn’t connect with. I was simple. Vanilla. Predictable. And she… wasn’t. Still, it felt harmless. Fiction is fiction, right? Just imagination. Just words. That’s what I told myself.
Last night, everything shifted.
It started small. Innocent. I asked to read one of her new short stories, something she’d mentioned earlier. She smiled, handed me access, and went to bed like it was nothing. The story itself was gentle, almost sweet—a fairy and a giant finding love in a strange, magical world. I remember thinking, this is her too. Soft. Dreamy. Safe. I closed the story feeling warm, like I’d just seen a part of her soul. And then… I made a mistake.
I went back.
There was a folder I hadn’t noticed before. Longer work. More chapters. Something unfinished. I hesitated for a second—this isn’t meant for me—but curiosity won. I clicked. I read. And almost immediately, something inside me twisted.
The world she built wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic. It was… controlled. Cold. Systematic. Boys and girls separated from birth. Men reduced to a function, a resource. When they turned twenty, they weren’t celebrated—they were processed. Their bodies taken from them. Not just altered—erased. I remember reading that part and physically flinching, my stomach tightening like something was wrong on a deeper level. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. It was written too well. Too vividly.
And then it got worse.
Women ruled everything. Not just society—but biology, reproduction, power itself. They chose who was worthy of passing on genes. They decided who lived, who died. And the deaths… they weren’t accidents. They were accepted. Expected. Even desired. There were scenes—moments—that made my skin crawl, not because they were graphic, but because of the emotion behind them. The satisfaction. The control. The quiet pleasure in domination. I remember staring at the screen thinking, what am I reading? But more importantly—what does this say about her?
I barely slept.
This morning, I asked her about it, trying to sound casual, like it didn’t bother me. She didn’t look ashamed. She didn’t hesitate. She just smiled—smiled—and asked if I liked it. I told her it was well written, because that part was true. And then she said it. Lightly. Easily. Like it meant nothing.
“It’s so hot. Just a filthy fantasy I love.”
Something in me dropped.
I watched her grab her bag, kiss me goodbye, and leave for class like it was just another normal day. Like she hadn’t just said something that rewired how I see her. And now I’m sitting here, alone, replaying everything. The story. Her voice. That word—hot.
Because I can’t stop thinking about one thing.
Not the world she created. Not even the brutality of it.
But the fact that when she imagined that world…
She wasn’t horrified.
She enjoyed it.
And now I can’t shake the feeling that when she looks at me…
she’s not just seeing me.
She’s imagining what I’d be like without a choice.
