Don’t Write About Me
998 Words
I don’t go back inside.
Not right away.
I stand there.
In the middle of the street.
Breathing too fast.
Thinking too much.
I can’t leave.
The words don’t feel real.
They should.
I just proved it.
My body literally refused to move.
Like something invisible wrapped around me and said:
No.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay… we’re calm.”
I am not calm.
Behind me—
him.
I can feel him.
I don’t need to turn.
I know he’s there.
Watching.
Waiting.
“That’s not possible,” I say.
“It is.”
His voice is closer now.
Too close.
I turn.
Mistake.
He’s right there.
Too close.
Everything in my body reacts.
Again.
This is getting very annoying.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say.
His eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Don’t I?”
No.
Absolutely not.
“This is insane,” I snap. “You can’t just—what—trap people in your town?”
A pause.
Then—
“People?” he repeats.
My stomach drops.
No.
No, I don’t like that.
“What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer.
Of course he doesn’t.
Instead, his gaze drifts—
To my hands.
Then to my bag.
Then back to my face.
“You’re still writing,” he says.
I frown.
“No, I’m not.”
His eyes sharpen.
“Yes,” he says quietly.
Something in my chest tightens.
I reach for my bag.
Pull out the notebook.
My fingers go cold.
There are words on the page.
New ones.
I didn’t write them.
I know I didn’t.
She tries to leave.
She can’t.
My breath stutters.
“No.”
I flip the page.
More.
The town holds her.
My pulse spikes.
“This isn’t—this isn’t me,” I say.
His gaze doesn’t waver.
“It is.”
I shake my head.
“No, I didn’t write that.”
“You started it.”
That again.
That sentence again.
My heart is racing now.
Too fast.
Too loud.
“So what?” I whisper. “Now it just… continues?”
His eyes darken slightly.
“Now it grows.”
I don’t like that.
I really don’t like that.
I look down at the page.
At the words.
And something in me—
shifts.
“What if I change it?” I ask.
His head tilts.
“Try.”
That’s not reassuring.
I swallow.
Then I write.
My hand shakes slightly.
She walks away.
I freeze.
Nothing happens.
I exhale.
“See?” I say. “Nothing—”
My foot moves.
Just one step.
I stop breathing.
No.
“No,” I whisper.
I didn’t—
My hand tightens around the pen.
She stops.
My body jerks—
And freezes.
Completely.
My breath catches.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Oh my god.
“Oh my god.”
I can’t move.
I can’t move.
Panic floods my chest.
“Stop it,” I whisper. “Stop—”
He steps closer.
Calm.
Controlled.
Like this is normal.
Like this is expected.
“Breathe,” he says.
“I can’t move.”
His gaze softens—
just slightly.
“Because you told yourself not to.”
That doesn’t make sense.
“That’s not—”
“Read it,” he says.
My eyes drop to the page.
She stops.
My stomach twists.
No.
No.
“Change it,” he says quietly.
My fingers shake.
I cross out the words.
Hard.
Then write—
She moves.
My body lurches forward.
Air rushes into my lungs.
I stumble.
Catching myself just before I fall.
My heart is racing.
Too fast.
Too real.
“What the hell—”
I look at him.
And something in my chest shifts again.
Because he’s not surprised.
At all.
“You knew,” I say.
“Yes.”
Of course.
“You knew and you didn’t tell me.”
“I told you to be careful.”
That’s not the same thing.
“That’s not enough.”
“It is.”
I laugh.
Sharp.
Unstable.
“No, it’s not.”
I take a step back.
Then another.
Space.
I need space.
My fingers tighten around the notebook.
“This is not okay,” I say.
“No,” he agrees.
That stops me.
“You agree?”
“Yes.”
I blink.
“That’s new.”
His gaze holds mine.
“It’s also reality.”
I don’t like that word.
I don’t like any of this.
“What happens if I write something bigger?” I ask.
A pause.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“Don’t.”
That’s not an answer.
“What happens?”
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t write about me.”
That lands.
Heavy.
“Why?”
Silence.
Then—
he steps closer.
Too close.
Always too close.
My breath catches.
Because this time—
it’s different.
There’s something in his eyes.
Something darker.
Something—
dangerous.
“Because,” he says quietly—
“you won’t be able to control what happens next.”
My pulse spikes.
“And you can?”
A beat.
Then—
“No.”
That’s worse.
Much worse.
I look down at the page.
At the empty space waiting.
My fingers tighten.
“What if I already did?” I whisper.
His eyes snap to mine.
Sharp.
“What did you write?”
My heart stutters.
Because I remember.
The line.
The one I started.
The one I didn’t finish.
Slowly—
I turn the page.
My breath stops.
The words are there.
Not mine.
But there.
He loses control.
Silence.
Heavy.
Wrong.
I look up.
He’s not calm anymore.
Not controlled.
Not distant.
Something has shifted.
His breathing is deeper.
Slower.
His eyes—
brighter.
Too bright.
“Don’t move,” he says.
Low.
Rough.
Not a request.
My heart slams.
“What—”
He steps closer.
Too fast.
Too sudden.
And this time—
I don’t think he’s the one in control.
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