Lost in the dark

The secret world

By the time I was eighteen, the rules at home felt heavier than ever, like walls closing in around me. I couldn’t leave without permission. I couldn’t be anywhere without explanation. And yet, I had learned the art of disappearing. The skill of moving silently, of slipping through the cracks unnoticed, of pretending I was somewhere else entirely. Every morning I left for the market or errand, I felt the thrill of planning my escape for later—my secret, my freedom.

When i was free, I ran. Every step toward Daniel’s place was fueled by excitement and fear. My heart pounded like a drum, my uniform clinging to me from the heat and the run. Every corner I turned, every street I crossed, I imagined someone might spot me and drag me back into the suffocating reality of rules. But I didn’t care. Nothing outside that door mattered.

The moment I stepped into his apartment, the world changed.

It was small, nothing fancy. A table pushed against the wall, a few chairs, a threadbare carpet—but to me, it was a palace. The air smelled faintly of his cologne, mixed with the scent of books and cooking oil. It was our private universe. I could laugh freely here. I could speak freely here. I could exist without pretending.

I cooked for him sometimes, carefully following his instructions, trying to make everything perfect. He watched with that easy smile of his, teasing me about small mistakes but never harshly. I felt important. Needed. Seen. Each clumsy movement, each tiny success, felt magnified under his attention.

We shared meals slowly, talking about everything and nothing at all. I told him about school, about lessons that bored me, about friends I could barely trust. He told me stories of his day, of people he knew, of the small dramas of the streets around him. Each word, each laugh, each glance felt like a thread tying me closer to him.

Some nights, we played music. I danced, awkward and unpolished, laughing at myself when I stumbled. He clapped, cheered, and sometimes laughed with that deep warmth that made me feel alive. I loved those moments. I loved the way he looked at me when I moved, like I was all that existed in the world.

Sometimes, we went out. Not far—cafés down the street, a quiet park under the trees, a bench where we could sit and watch the sun lower in the sky. Those dates were fleeting, simple, but in my mind they were epic. They were moments where the world outside—rules, teachers, parents, obligations—didn’t exist. I could breathe, I could laugh, I could be entirely me.

And yet, the secrecy was a shadow that followed me home. Every walk back through the streets, my chest tightened with fear. Every corner I passed, every familiar neighbor’s face, my stomach churned. I couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if someone discovered my secret. What if my parents found out? What if they punished me?

Even so, I returned.

Because the pull of him was stronger than fear.

Sometimes, when he left the room for a moment, I would sit there and stare at him like he was a painting I could memorize, afraid to blink, afraid to forget a single detail. The curve of his smile, the way he ruffled his hair, the sound of his laughter—it all lived inside me. And I realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that my entire world had begun to orbit him.

Even when I tried to focus on school, on homework, on my future, my thoughts wandered. I thought about how he would react if I sent a message, how he would laugh if I teased him, how he would pull me close and make the world disappear for a few hours.

I was addicted.

Not to the physical, not in ways I could name, but to his attention, his approval, his presence. I craved it like air. I felt empty when I wasn’t near him. My heart ached for him constantly, and the thought of being apart—even for a day—made me shake.

There were nights when I cried alone, feeling guilty for how obsessed I had become. I worried about the lies I told my parents, about the risks I took, about the pieces of myself I was giving away without realizing it. I wanted to stop. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to live a life that wasn’t tethered to someone else’s moods and desires.

But morning always came. And with it, the thrill of sneaking away, the thought of seeing him, the pull that I could not resist.

The apartment, the meals, the dancing, the quiet moments where he made me laugh until my chest hurt—they were all mine. And even though fear lingered, even though guilt gnawed at me, I couldn’t give them up. I didn’t know how to.

Because for me, at eighteen, Daniel wasn’t just a boy I liked. He was the center of my world. My heart. My obsession. My reason to run into the sun every day, trembling, exhausted, and alive.

And I would keep running toward him, no matter the cost,no matter if I get caught