I loved him, though I couldn't pinpoint exactly when it began. Perhaps it started when he pretended to be gravely ill, yet always greeted me with that tender smile, vowing to protect me from my mother-in-law's cruelty.
Or maybe it was those nights when he slipped into my room, claiming my body with an almost possessive intensity, only to cradle me gently afterward until I drifted off to sleep. It was a terrifying habit—one that ensnared me, unraveling my heart until I was utterly lost.
At first, this love was twisted, unnatural. It gnawed at me like two separate agonies, day and night, eroding my will. I drowned in the warmth of his daytime smiles, only to surrender to his nighttime dominance.
I loved him.
I finally understood that. But what good did it do? What use was it no
