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WHAT A FOOL CANNOT KNOW ABOUT ﾉ YANDERE DR. RATIO

Summary: Trying to break up with Veritas proves to be impossible to accomplish. You provide sound arguments, but he knows how to shoot them down. Unfortunately, he needs you, just as much as you need him — whether you have yet to discover this truth or not.

cw: gn!reader, controlling relationship, dubcon-esque touch, manipulation and coercion, coddling and overprotectiveness, possessiveness, love bombing, diet restrictions, suggestiveness. word count: 5.5k.

Note: Divider by @/saradika-graphics.

“You ought to do what?” Veritas’s stern voice expresses derision, as if scolding you for yet another idiotic idea of yours.

“I want to break up with you, Veritas,” you repeat yourself grimly. Your arms are crossed as you try to keep yourself standing, feet firmly glued to the floor to demonstrate your oath to your decision and avoid susceptibility to his upcoming counterarguments. The light colors of your living room, carefully designed to be a peaceful mood maker, are also incapable of soothing your ‘wrath.’

He knows what you’re doing – spilling on the floor in front of you are packed bags, you have your shoes on, those two things meant to signal you are supposedly unswerving in your conviction about leaving. All because of one suggestion your closest friend has made: something about your genius boyfriend Veritas Ratio being controlling. He finds your delusions to be laughable, but also in need of being eradicated by a firm hand.

“Well, in such predicaments, one usually provides enough arguments explaining their decision. Care to elaborate?” the taunt in his voice is sufficient enough to amplify your angry fervent.

You inhale deeply through your nose; you are well aware of the obligation to argue your case well enough for it to be taken seriously, based upon logic — not foolish. Your first thought is to make an (objectively reasonable) accusation, but you know better than make yourself appear hasty. “I’ve been concerned about the way you treat me. I cannot help but fee—notice that you tend to make a lot of choices for me or question my own. It feels like I am deprived of autonomy and am being patronized. I recognize your good intentions,” no, you don’t, “but there’s still limits of mine, that if they are being crossed, they will make your behavior unhealthy.”

His behaviour is pretty confusing to your person who’s supposed to know him well as his partner. It is pretty much the antithesis of his persona — the real Dr. Ratio doesn’t serve answers on the silver platter. He’s used to steering people towards right directions by putting them through challenges so they can actually digest their situation, derive conclusions, and learn.

With you, it’s as if he views your independence differently — you stubbornly stick to your ideas, have your own ways of dealing with issues, faulty or not, as they make you, so there’s not much hope for your improvement. You don’t want to be perfect or participate in some unspoken race — and so he makes ideal choices for you, so as to not let his ‘ignorant’ partner lose on any opportunity, or even hurt themselves.

(From what you eat, and wear for the weather; through checking your locations and asking overly intimate questions; to speaking for you during bigger decisions and choosing which activities are better for your brain.)

This ‘guidance’ is a form of benevolence in his dictionary, as he’d typically judge any other individual like you a lost cause, and unworthy of his patronage. To you, it’s only about being in the palm of his hand, and you’ve suffered enough from his iron grip in the last couple of months — you felt trapped, caged, and so out of control it made you claustrophobic.

Veritas sighs with exasperation; it’s evident he doesn’t share your precarious sentiment, and while you don’t know that, needs to breathe the same air you do. “When I take the wheel, it is not inaugurated with the intention to control you, as you probably assume. The blame about you needing it so often is not to be placed on me, but your disinclination to self-realization, and tendency to risk taking and sacrificing your health. And when I debate the choices you’ve made, it’s out of worry and care. I can shape the delineation of the consequences of your decisions before they’re even made,” he informs you with a rather… chiding tone.

“Oh, so you think you always know better than me, about you?” you finally snap with indignation. This is all so… humiliating and infantilizing to hear — perhaps he can’t accept you for who you are, or is overprotective — as you can’t possibly be such a failure of a person! You make no more mistakes than others, and not willing to incessantly think about a better life is you saving yourself from the stressful pressure; you’re just being a human.

“Statistically, I’ve managed to reach safer conclusions in the past than you would,” he smiles a little as he says that. He sits down on the couch, subtly showing you he’s still in control, as he’s not scared of putting himself in a vulnerable spot. You wouldn’t be surprised if he were to pull out some sheet with such statistics right now and put his doctorates to a good use.

You have enough of his murky righteousness, walking to be in front of him and shove your accusatory finger in his face. “You can’t know me better than I know myself! And regardless of your supposedly caring intentions, are you going to ignore the unhealthy part? How all of this is coddling, patronizing, dehumanizing about basic freedom?! Because even if I make bad choices and mistakes, this is how I learn!”

You’ve been feeling so suffocated in this relationship, and you find his treatment detestable; if there’s anyone ignorant, it’s him not acknowledging your suffering and anxiety.

He scoffs. “You are also no child. You had your entire life frame to ponder over your mistakes and align yourself to do better. If you still make minor and, frankly speaking, blunders on a daily basis, I’m afraid you might be the problem, and so it becomes my responsibility as your boyfriend to safekeep you from such.

You put yourself in unnecessary stressful situations, make choices that are bad for your health, and refuse to see outside of your stubborn scope, obstructing better opportunities — all which I help you avoid when I lead you.”

You are no child yet he treats you like one.

You decide to trail off of the wagon of logic. This isn’t even logic. OF COURSE you are not a perfect human with no fault, yet so is anyone else! Perhaps you do create mishaps and cling to what’s not good sometimes; however, you doubt this ever justifies the controlling and coddling dynamic he’s been serving you for the duration of your entire relationship, foretelling you reaching anti-mundane, anti-ignorant magnificence, in a safe environment. That’s why the universe allows you to operate every right to unleash your dissatisfaction — simply cut him off and leave.

“I’m leaving. I have enough of you, of your reign, of your superiority—” you seethe when you turn around to pick up your bags and march out of the living room on your way to the new life, but then arms wrap around your torso and draw you close to the autonomy sucking ghoul’s chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” surprisingly, your theoretically ex-boyfriend doesn’t sound angry when he murmurs that into your ear — it’s more like a velvet, comforting whisper of a peaceful sea. Your back is pressed against his chest and he keeps you caged to him.

“Let me go, Veritas!” you exclaim all ardent with panic, struggling in his arms.

“I’m afraid my lover isn’t in the right headspace to be using their mind with dexterity. You’re making a big decision when you’re upset at me — not to mention addled with the agitation — whilst without trying to resolve the issue first… even you can admit it’s not the wisest idea, hm?” his voice speaks egregiously for him softly, the juxtaposition to his previous spitfire-scholar manner and vernacular vocabulary.

You don’t like where this farce is heading — he’s not usually this lenient, even if he’s not necessarily cold like a bad boyfriend would be (he does realize the inclination to be affectionate), and his temper eager to prove you wrong is gone…

“Veri, this decision has been made based on many accumulated memories, not just now,” you deflect, the craving to indulge in his warmth keeping you somewhat calmer. You still squirm in his arms but he doesn’t budge.

“Yes, but even those moments you recall have been potent with big emotions. Since you came to me to express your issue with me only just now, about the break up, I had never seen a chance to fix it. I don’t think such an omission is fair.”

As you stare at the spacious window facing the darkening evening sky busying itself with lighting on the awful neons only overstimulating your muzzy mind, you think he’s partially correct — you haven’t been most straightforward about his overwhelming behavior, but what was there to discuss? If he proclaims to know you well, so you possess knowledge about his game: as long as you wouldn’t try to leave him, he’d do nothing about your complaints, only hold a clincher over your head to say you’re ungrateful.

If someone is willing to control you for all there is about you, grabbing your stems to make you grow towards completely different directions, you doubt this gardener can ever change. His feelings about how you live come first, ignoring your angst that comes from the dehumanization and your relationship’s enclosure of control has been bringing.

“There’s nothing to fix! You’re just stuck up on being as much in control of my life as possible! I don’t care whether choices I make are more or less stupid than the ones I’d make! You can’t take away my autonomy because you’re bothered by me not being perfect! Do you know how suffocating and overbearing you were to me lately!” the volume of your voice is raised to almost deafening decibels. You trash in his arms again, finally hitting his body with yours so hard that he trips and falls back onto the couch… with you — a mishandled move, as you’re now trapped again, on his lap.

Veritas is momentarily taken aback by the new position, but he then proceeds to take advantage of it, also soaking in your misapprehension of his character. “Being perfect?” his arms tighten around your midriff, and one of his hands cups your throat, not yet squeezing. If he was angry before, he’s raging now.

Your interpretation of his intentions, whether objectively correct or not, feels like the biggest insult to his feelings and ambitions. He’s assured he hasn’t been trying to make you perfect or control you — instead, his goal was to protect you from your own stupidity and to take care of you and your health… if it helps you reach the best of your potentials, that’s only a bonus. “What you claim is utterly disrespectful, and for how shameful it makes you, expresses your lack of gratitude,” he hisses, as his fingers are beginning to dig into your neck a bit too hard to be considered safe. No, you’re not allowed to leave—

He realizes his mistake when you stiffen up under him and from the angle of his eyes, he can observe some fear — his mind tells himself how asinine he is to let his emotions control him, even if he’s actually afraid of losing you. He lets go of your throat and cups your face instead, the other hand soothing your waist, this time opting for a more gentle voice again, “Look at me.”

He delicately cranes your head to the side, until you’re meeting with a sight of his face and are resting the back of your head on his shoulder — he peers at you with something pensive yet intense dirty lover’s ownership it’s unsettling to witness. His breath is grazing your skin and you feel inappropriate (involuntary included) for this situation’s arousal.

“What do you want from me? I have told you, your intentions don’t conceal or fix the unhealthy effects your leadership causes,” you heave a sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted, to the point where you no longer are trying to leave his unwelcome hold — you’re assuming he’ll get weary eventually as well. You really wish you could just grab your things that are now taunting you by lying just a few feet away, but are so unreachable in your position. “You’re too damn pushy. I can’t even eat what I want.” You know you’ll binge on nice snacks once you’re gone.

“Have I ever hurt you?” he asks smoothly, the husky voice spreading vibrations down your torso. You don’t like how the forced proximity is built with the suave tone falling straight into your ear canal. His thumb moves from your jaw to stroke your lower lip, causing it to tremble against your good conscience.

The question still manages to throw you off, and is not incentivizing you when he’s ignoring your main concern. “Not in the most straightforward way. You haven’t physically or verbally abused me; however, this doesn’t mean I feel comfortable or happy with what you do to me,” you say hesitantly, staying vigilant.

“I see. Does your unhappiness imply you weren’t content with me for our entire relationship?” there’s an odd sadness in his tone and eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in him before, even in his rare but happening moments of failure; you have to dig your feet hard into the floor to not let it sway your perception and make you pity him.

Unlike him, you’re not heartless.

“Of course not,” you scoff, not realizing you’re subconsciously resting your body on his with less tension in your muscles. “I’m not saying you were a bad or neglectful partner. But it wasn’t rainbows and unicorns in the moments I highlighted!”

Your words seem to create something even more wistful in him, a force powerful enough he glides your hair back with a gentle hand. His voice gets even quieter, “I never intended them to feel that way. However, can anyone postulate about their relationship out there having its moments be one hundred percent idyllic?”

You can’t gauge if his proposed perspective is manipulative or he genuinely feels sorry. The question makes you assess your previously stated claims again for a second, but you’re still not giving up. “No, that’d be an utopian dream. Still… if there’s behavior that can be described as unhealthy, it should be taken care of. For me to stay with you, you’d have to leave my own choices for me. You should be allowed to go no further than to counsel me.”

There’s an almost indistinguishable twitch in his eye, but he doesn’t let go of his disposition. He finally grants his hand a fall back onto your waist again, and you look ahead of yourself, not willing to strain your neck. It is when you try to pry off his arms once more, wanting to at once face him properly.

He stops you, infuriating as he ignores your lack of consent to be held for nth momentum; this time it’s worse, as his hands wander across your hips and stroke them, as if possessively. If you could see his face, you’d notice the slightly obsessive hunger for not much of your body, if not keeping you — he really can’t let you get away from him, for he might lose his mind.

(Emotional disturbances due to breaking up would affect his work anyway.)

Your body stills, and you curse him when his action spills sensitivity in that lower area, an unthinking sparkle of something pleasant you are familiar with — he’s always been skilled and dedicated in making you feel good, physically. He also knows how to notice you, all the good parts others can’t, and what sort of worship to indulge them with. Not to mention, his immerse knowledge gives him enough of bargaining chips to manoeuvre your life, body, and mind with ease. “Let me go—” your demand comes with a quiver.

“Haven’t you noticed something?” Veritas interrupts your bewilderment with an inquiry, and his right hand dips under your shirt, teasing the soft skin of your stomach, while the other goes up from your hip till the dip of your waist. Both the touch and question stops you in your tracks, as your skin is ignited and screaming for more.

“N-noticed what?” your tone is of a squeak, embarrassingly highly enough. You force yourself to cover his hands with yours, pausing their work.

He doesn’t swat your hands away; he moves his with yours, slyly forcing you to map your own body. “That the quality of your life has significantly improved after you entered the relationship with me, not degraded. Your health included. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

You realize that he is right, as your life indeed is now technically better than it had been before — you score better opportunities, you have someone you can depend on, your life is quite comfortable financially, you feel good physically, and you are loved. He doesn’t do worse things than those occasional instances of dictating. For a moment, your motivation wavers; but then you remember how he’s made you feel for past months, and also, your friend’s words.

(“Some men are like this. They lure you in with affection, undivided attention, and luxuries, so once they know you’re too attached to leave, they can do anything to you.”)

Right, his suggestive touch — it has no place to exist when you’re having such an important conversation! You trash with all the vigor you could muster. “You’re just manipulating me! You’re suddenly being all soft and groping me when I’m trying to talk to you seriously!”

Veritas only sighs, exasperated, muttering, “It was to help you relax, so you can take a more conscious approach. But if you insist…” Surprisingly, he lets you go — even that is up to be questioned, if him respecting your boundaries isn’t some scheme either.

You quickly stand up back on your feet and turn around, not hiding that you’re fuming again. He stands up too and your heart skips a beat. What he says next throws you off.

“Please, give me your hand,” Veritas requests politely, using proper etiquette. So unusual. Typically, his requests are orders, as he finds them to be absolute in their vital importance.

Is he trying to be nicer to you, for you? Is he finally regretting his treatment, once you scared him with the possibility of leaving?

“For what?” you ask with suspicion, tapping your foot with impatience. Perhaps you should just make a run for the door and leave, even if it wouldn’t be most mature-sounding. You’re further dissatisfied at the thought of running into him as your ex at your workplace.

“I want to show you something. It might clear any false conjectures that you seemingly have about me,” he informs curtly. It raises your interest just as he anticipated — of course curiosity can be a strong force, that is, a useful tool for his grasp over you.

He thrives with satisfaction when you submit by raising your hand in the air. He cups it in his, gently as if it’s a brittle porcelain (affectionately like he knows you secretly crave him to be), and places it over his heart — it’s a horse running a race, thrumming and threatening to escape his chest. “Can you palpate how fast my heart is under your fingers? Does that sound like the heart of a man indifferent to you or your misery?”

Your stance on accusing him of malicious conduct has been slightly faltering the entire conversation, as you can’t deny that Veritas is a good debater, knowing how to make you look at things from a different angle — his proof is extremely flattering to you especially. Or rather not as much flattering, as romantically gratifying — to be loved is a most wonderful feeling. The little show is made to be even better when you’re the only person he ever becomes vulnerable with — starting with something simple as you having a chance to see him without his plaster head on, daily at that.

Your friend’s words still ring in your head, however. Your almost-ex is still a genius and he’d definitely know all about what heart tempo expresses what; therefore, maybe know how to adjust its pace to the perfect tune… “You… could be faking it. To make me forgive you.” Yet your fingers twitch on his chest, desperate to give him some pleasure too.

You want to touch him. It is easy to dream of being back in his arms, safe and loved, saved and loving, be the fool indifferent to his misbehaving — it’s the only way a heart knows how to protect itself from being shattered.

It is only just now that you realize how scared you are to be on your own in the wild again — the truth about how he had made you dependent on him for choosing the safest and most convenient life is terrifying and disturbing. You were forcefully ripped away from the feeling of danger or bigger perturbation in your daily situations, it is easy to feel out of tune with the rhythm of the world. It’s as if you need to go back to baby steps to know how to function properly again.

Going to work, you can handle it. Shopping, you can handle it. But what if one day, you’ll somehow mess up filling the tax form, and you’ll be accused of fraud, and then thrown into jail— you need him to keep you protected. Or something happens at the guild, and you need him to vouch for you.

You don’t even think it’s his fault you feel that way — you’ve been manipulated into thinking you were simply living in the dark, your back turned against those dangers, and he has opened your eyes to notice what could have happened due to your irresponsible choices.

Veritas’s eagle eyes notice your discernment and irrationality; still, he only lets out a sigh for what feels like a thousandth time, knowing admitting he has this advantage over you will further frighten you. His hand squeezes on your and actually trembles, unused to being so open, and afraid to let it go should you choose to walk away from his life. “What will it take for you to believe me? Should I ask another genius, maybe Ruan Mei, to prepare a truth serum for me to confess, no matter how… embarrassing it could be for me? Because a lie detector certainly is faulty.”

Your face scrunches and you barely hit his chest as a protest. Lower in the hierarchy of the Intelligentsia Guild, you still had a (dis)pleasure of working with that shady woman too many times. “I wouldn’t trust that woman, so I would have no guarantee you’re not making some deal behind my back,” you rebut.

“Then Screwllum. You find that man to be trustworthy, no?” his fingers steeple together with yours and your heart jumps — it’s such a feeble and shaky movement you cannot believe he’s being soft. And him willing to make himself exposed in his proposed method…

You do trust Screwllum. He’s strict but fair.

“You… you’re serious, aren’t you? You would go that far in order to prove your affections for me?” you can no longer hide your hopes in your voice. Amid your anger and wanting to leave, it was easy for not-at-all-old feelings to resurface, mixing into poison with your fear of dealing with things on your own — new for you separation anxiety. Leaving is easy, but dealing with the sadness and paranoia after isn’t. While his questionable behavior is not making you happy, you can’t say the latter of the two is worse.

Maybe, you really have been too harsh on him. Maybe he can compromise about his control, if he does care.

“Yes. If this is the only way, I won’t hesitate to do it, no matter how hard it could be for me to attempt something so… hazardous,” he claims with determination.

You exhale out a shaky and overly carbonated with the previous concerns breath; if he would subject himself to being under the influence of some truth substance, your logic tells you there’s no reason to doubt his love, especially with his heart’s behavior around you. If he wanted you trapped, wouldn’t he have done so easily a long time ago?

“No… you don’t need to. I believe you, Veritas,” you admit with a forced smile. There’s still something that feels off about the situation, the lingering intensity of his gaze, pushiness, and aversion to acknowledging less healthy monuments of your relationship; but you also have more arguments towards pro than against, and assume he’s willing to ease on his tendencies, as he did admit he didn’t mean to be controlling. A man who loves you, would he really want to hurt you so much? He’s never outright hurt you — and what made you uncomfortable can be negotiated.

You see a tension disappear in his shoulders and he lets go of your hand in pursuit of your face. With that, it’s clear he doesn’t want to say anything else that’s embarrassing, assuming you’re back in his arm — or rather, have never left. But as he’s leaning in for a kiss to seal the deal and let it speak for him and his vulnerable soul, you stop him, “But can you promise me you’ll interfere with my decisions less from now on? It’s still overwhelming.”

Your voice sounds awfully positive, as if you think you’ve got him wrapped around your fingers now, enough for him to regret his actions; it irks him. “Love, we have just discussed that. I’m not doing this to control you nor patronize you. The issue instead is you not being used to being taken care of and stubbornly clinging to your independence,” his voice becomes stern again, but he’s making sure to maintain understanding and some warmth in it. You’re much more volatile now.

“What? No! It’s not a matter of independence but you stealing my autonomy,” you’re up in arms again and he knows he has to soothe you. “I could be more dependent on you and I’d still want you to let me choose. It’s about the principle, a basic human right—”

“Which one of your friends has filled your head with such crafty and repugnant designs?” he suddenly asks and your eyes widen.

“Huh? It’s my own conclusion…” you say defensively. It’s true that it was your friend’s bystander perspective that allowed you to perceive the mistakes of his you failed to see on your own; however, after this one conversation you had, you couldn’t help but agree. “If others notice that you’re wrong, there must be something true about it…” Sure, some of the choices he’s made for you have improved your life, but it’s about lack of consent here. Not to mention, not allowing you to make errors like any other human is surprisingly more negative than the modus operandi of perfect life, as it takes away from the human experience.

“And I think your friend is just jealous that you are lucky enough to be dating a handsome genius and they aren’t,” he states bluntly.

The suggestion immediately brings up different memories where your friend would have passively joked about how lucky you are, or complaining how there's little of charming, interesting, and intelligent men like Veritas… which contradicts them warning you about him not so much after. Have they been naive at first too, or have they been making you doubt your own partner so they can snatch him for themselves? Sabotaging your relationship?

“I— they wouldn’t do that—” you stutter, desperately chasing to defend your friend’s honor.

“Be honest with me. How many times in our relationship have you truly felt uncomfortable?” he takes a step forward and you instinctively take a step back, overwhelmed by the intensity of his question.

“Well, there were a few instances, and you even control my diet—” you take a few more steps, creating sounds too loud with your shoes for your ears now buzzing with trepidation, not realizing you’re about to hit a wall of the living room behind you.

“A few instances. When no one is devoid of being made to be uncomfortable every so often, me included. What you eat is both nutritious and still tasty. Are you seriously going to let these few, inconsequential moments dim many more positive ones?” You get the message that you are starting to sound ungrateful and spoiled, a bit naive too — yes, him deciding for you doesn’t feel nice, but some sacrifice is necessary for your wellbeing or stability. Relationships aren’t black and white — not every rule will cooperate in every relationship, and not every partner will be perfect. You mustn't create unrealistic standards you’d see only on social media.

As Veritas moves forward again, your back finally hits the wall of the living room, and your only support is with your palms against it. Your breathing rattles when he places his hands on the sides of your head, towering over you and trapping you. It’s the birth of night now, and with no artificial lights yet turned on, you see his irises shine like a molten metal.

His roseate eyes cause you to freeze and turn into a stone as if he’s some god possessing such power, their intensity undeniable — he needs you with him and he’ll have you. For his and your sake.

“Don’t let one fool take away everything from us. You matter to me,” he exclaims his promise with a destructive love and your name, and before you register such, he grabs you by your nape and thigh he slightly lifts, and kisses you to convey and solidify his words.

You don’t reciprocate at first, having your own doubts linger, and you’re further flustered when he steps between your legs; but when his finger rubs that one spot on your neck and his hand wanders up your thigh, it’s easy to sink into his wonders.

You whimper against his lips when his palm on your leg wanders dangerously high, almost seeking out the most pleasurable and sensitive areas. His lips move on yours with undeniable practice, pecking and teasing with a tongue, sucking on your lips; and when you open your mouth to inhale starved air, he inserts his tongue in.

One squeeze on your leg is enough for your arms to finally wrap around his shoulders and your eyes close; although, it’s still him who has to do the most work, as you remain overwhelmed by the entire discussion.

The kiss lasts for what feels like infinity and yet it’s not enough.

When he lets go of your nape and watches your face painted in yearning, he knows that he now has you. He strokes your cheek, letting the magic of his touch deceive your defenses once more. “Will you stay with me? I’m sure we can reach some compromise; albeit, don’t expect me to let you get loose and undisciplined,” he warns calmly, finding difficulty in not sounding giddy.

When you nod, he thinks how much he hates the way you make him feel — this obsession — as instead of feeling just victorious over you, he also feels his own longing. He’s not against the idea of love as a whole — it’s only human and he can’t judge others for being in love, therefore only human — but he’s not a big fan of it participating in his life, messing up with his head, logic, and perfect schedule.

Regardless, he’s also most elated, naturally. His relationship’s end with you has been rescinded, and he can spend his days with you again. The vivid imagery of you with someone else is upmost abhorrent and should be condemned. Not that he’d let you go; he’s smart enough to bring you back, but wouldn’t it create a peril of losing your trust and love.

“Good, excellent even. Go unpack your things and I’ll make us dinner. Perhaps some wine indulgence won’t hurt today…” he murmurs the latter, thinking of rewarding you for being so compliant and saving him from depression. He helps you stand up properly, knowing you’re putty in his arms after the kiss.

You don’t even have time to whine about how his meal will be all healthy and chosen for you again. (He’d tell you it’s about your wellbeing anyway, and is he wrong, when you’ve been feeling more energized lately?)

As you leave, Veritas pulls out his phone. Through the spyware he has installed on his phone (only a safety concern about you, of course), he watches a new message appear in the log. You accusing your friend and blocking them the next second, as you threaten them so they won’t get in your relationship’s business, is nothing but satisfying to witness.

For the foolish you make him, you also make him feel alive and closer to what being human means, living by your own rules. Stronger than a real fool like you should be, contradicting all he knows about rigorous discipline and logic. You’re the challenge and risk he thrives on and wants to watch develop in real time, the forbidden fruit to feast on; this notion is in some ways also liberating.

Believe it or not, he does care for you — he just cannot see a beloved person’s potential go to waste, any menace and harm to come, or let your health degrade, as he’d feel a failure of a lover. He also can’t deny the inherent, selfish need to possess you, and keep you away from the world, as if only he can truly appreciate you properly — if he needs you, who is to deny him?

He’s not letting you go, even if it’s destined to ruin you both.

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