Cycle I · “The Hidden Voice” · 17

She tells herself she’s being smarter this time.

No more instantaneous “I belong to you” messages. No more sending everything to the first man who calls her a good girl with the right cadence. She’s smarter now. Tired. Sharper. That’s what she says.

Then she finds this piece again.

The lines about moving fast and recklessly make her jaw clench. The bit about self-harm going quiet when the obsession is loud enough makes her feel seen in a way she hates. She remembers the last man who made her forget her own cuts for a while, just by promising to leave his marks instead.

Her DMs are quiet tonight. One thread from a new Dom blinks at the top of the screen: still early, still playful, still “safe” enough. She hasn’t told him anything real yet. He hasn’t asked.

She scrolls down to the end:

“There is nothing I could say or do that would make her want to leave me. Ever.”
“It hasn’t happened yet. It hasn’t happened.”

The “yet” sticks.

For a long minute, she imagines herself as the girl in this story — the one who trades in her self-destruction for his, the one who feels complete for the first time and never looks back. It feels less like fiction and more like a door already cracked open somewhere in her future.

She backs out of the piece, opens the waiting chat, and just stares. Her fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type something too honest, too fast, too familiar.

Instead, she sends a neutral reply.

It’s not a promise.

It’s not a no.

It’s that thin, dangerous in-between where obsession can still be avoided… or invited in, if she lets herself tilt a little too far.

Cycle I · “The Hidden Voice” · 17

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