Chapter 5
890 Words
The first time Melina saw the old man, she felt it immediately.
The air changed.
It was subtle—so subtle that no one else seemed to notice. Conversations continued. Footsteps echoed through the hallway. The house remained the same.
But Melina felt it in her chest.
A tightening.
A warning.
The man arrived in the afternoon, announced by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Seyra’s father straightened immediately, smoothing his shirt, his posture stiffening with respect.
“That’s my boss,” he said quietly, almost nervously.
Boss.
The word lingered unpleasantly in Melina’s mind.
The old man stepped inside with slow, deliberate movements. His hair was gray, neatly combed back. His clothes were expensive—too expensive. Everything about him spoke of control. Authority. Ownership.
His eyes, however, were the worst part.
They didn’t roam the room naturally. They didn’t flicker with curiosity or politeness.
They stopped.
On Melina.
On Seyra.
Too long.
Melina felt it like a hand pressing against her spine.
The man smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Well,” he said smoothly, his voice low and measured. “What a lively house.”
His gaze lingered again—this time openly. Slowly. Unashamed.
Melina’s fingers curled instinctively.
Seyra didn’t seem to notice at first. She stood beside her father, smiling politely, answering questions when spoken to. But Melina saw it—the moment Seyra shifted uncomfortably, the way her shoulders tensed, the slight hesitation before responding.
The old man laughed softly.
“You’ve grown,” he said to Seyra. “Quite a bit.”
The words themselves were harmless.
The way he said them was not.
Melina stepped closer to Seyra without thinking, positioning herself just slightly in front of her. The movement was small, almost unnoticeable—but intentional.
The man’s eyes flicked to Melina.
And stayed there.
Something cold slid down Melina’s spine.
She had been looked at before. Ignored before. Dismissed before.
But never like this.
This was not curiosity.
This was not interest.
This was assessment.
That night, Seyra didn’t come to Melina’s room.
Melina waited.
And waited.
She listened to the quiet house, her chest tight, her thoughts spiraling. When she finally heard Seyra’s footsteps pass by the hallway—moving in the opposite direction—something sharp twisted inside her.
The next morning, Seyra avoided her eyes.
“Are you okay?” Melina asked quietly as they stood in the kitchen.
Seyra hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired.”
But she didn’t smile.
The old man stayed longer than Melina expected.
Days turned into weeks, and his visits became frequent. Too frequent.
Whenever he was around, Seyra changed.
She spoke less freely. She laughed less. She stayed closer to her parents, her movements restrained, cautious. And worst of all—she spent time alone with him.
“Dad needs me to bring him tea,” Seyra said once, already turning away.
Melina’s chest burned.
“Why?” she asked, sharper than intended.
Seyra blinked. “He asked.”
That answer wasn’t enough.
It was never enough.
Melina began to hate the sound of his voice. Hate the way Seyra stiffened when he spoke her name. Hate how he found excuses to keep Seyra nearby.
And she hated herself most of all.
Because she could do nothing.
She was just a girl in someone else’s house. No authority. No proof. No voice.
Only a feeling.
A terrible, suffocating feeling.
At night, when Seyra finally came back to their shared room, Melina held her tighter than before. Her arms wrapped around Seyra like a shield, her grip subtly firm.
Seyra noticed.
“You’re clingy lately,” she said once, half-joking.
Melina didn’t laugh.
“Stay with me,” she whispered instead.
Seyra hesitated—but then nodded.
Melina listened to Seyra breathe as she slept, her mind racing.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
The thought repeated over and over, sinking deeper each time.
Soon, Melina began to watch.
She watched the old man’s habits. The times he arrived. The rooms he favored. The excuses he used to call Seyra over.
She memorized his schedule. His tone. His expressions.
She started positioning herself nearby whenever he was around.
She offered to help. To fetch things. To listen.
The old man noticed.
“You’re quiet,” he said to Melina one afternoon, his gaze sharp. “But observant.”
Melina met his eyes without flinching.
“I like listening,” she replied.
He smiled.
That smile made her skin crawl.
From then on, Melina did something she had never done before.
She pretended.
She pretended politeness. Interest. Compliance.
She asked questions—carefully framed, harmless on the surface.
“How long have you known Seyra’s family?”
“You visit often.”
“You must trust them a lot.”
The old man answered easily.
Too easily.
Melina stored every word.
Every night, Seyra felt farther away.
Every night, Melina held her tighter.
The fear inside Melina was no longer quiet.
It was possessive.
Protective.
Obsessive.
Seyra was hers.
Not in a romantic way.
Not yet.
But in a way that felt deeper than friendship—like ownership born from desperation, like a vow forged in silence.
And Melina knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
She would not lose Seyra.
Not to that man.
Not to anyone.
- Writer
