Meet my Angel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybJeZvFUPa8&t=112s

Love is a gentle noose, a velvet shroud, a whispered vow that binds even as it strangles.I have seen its darkness.I have lived it.I have surrendered to it.This is the tale of Yongsun—my muse, my captor, my angel.I. The LettersIt began with words.I am a writer, known for tales of love and longing, for stories that seep into the hearts of those who find solace in sorrow. But among my readers, there was one who stood apart.Yongsun.She was not merely an admirer. She was devoted.At first, she was only a whisper in my inbox—a fan, a gentle presence. She wrote to me with reverence, speaking of how my words had saved her from the depths of despair, how they had given her a reason to keep breathing.I answered, as I did with all kind letters.And so she wrote again.And again.Her words grew more intimate. She confessed that my kindness—long ago, in ways I did not recall—had kept her alive. That I had once, unknowingly, given her the means to survive: paying for her tuition, sending letters of encouragement, calling her my angel when she was at her lowest.She had lost her family. She had been alone. And my words had become her world.But I did not remember.When I told her so, her next letter was different. The words were still beautiful, still aching with devotion, but beneath them lay something sharper, something raw."How could you forget?"I hesitated. I told her she was kind, that I was grateful for her support, but that love must not be rushed.I should have known—obsession does not wait.And so, one night, as I walked home through the quiet streets, the world faded to black.II. The CabinI awoke to firelight.The scent of pine and burning wood curled in the air. The room was unfamiliar—walls of rough-hewn timber, a bed too soft, a single window revealing only snow and endless trees.And then, her voice.“You’re awake.”She sat beside me, dark hair cascading over her shoulder, her eyes black pools of devotion and hunger.“Yong,” I rasped, my throat raw. “Where—where am I?”She smiled, tilting her head as though I had asked something foolish.“You’re home.”I struggled, but my body was weak. My wrists burned from where they had been bound."Let me go."She sighed, as one does when indulging a stubborn child. "I can't do that.""You kidnapped me!"She frowned, as if the word displeased her. “No,” she murmured. “I saved you.”III. The HungerI was to write for her.She placed a journal in my hands, ink and quill beside it."I want words meant only for me," she whispered.I refused.So she left me alone.For two days.No food. No water. Only silence.When she returned, she set a plate before me. The scent of warm bread and honey filled the air, and my stomach roared."You will eat," she said, "when you tell me you love me."I cursed her.She only smiled. “Then write me a poem.”I glared at her.She traced her fingers over my collarbone, her touch feather-light. "Tell me you love me, Jess. Just once."I clenched my jaw.Her lips hovered just over mine."You don't have to mean it."IV. The EscapeThe first time, I ran the moment she left for firewood.I stumbled through the snow, lungs burning, the cold biting into my skin.But she found me.She did not run—she walked, each step slow, deliberate, certain.I fought.She was small, but desperation makes demons of us all. She struck me across the face, sending me into the snow.And then, impossibly, she kissed me.Not gentle. Consuming."I warned you," she whispered against my lips.The second time, I made it farther.I reached the woods, the darkness pressing in, but before I could flee, she was upon me.I struggled, but she pinned me to the ground, her breath warm against my skin."You can't leave me," she whispered.And then—she kissed me again.And this time, I kissed her back.V. The LieOne night, she whispered, "I'm carrying your child."A lie.A delusion.But when she took my hand and placed it over her stomach, when she pressed herself against me, soft and pleading, I did not argue.I whispered what she longed to hear."I love you."And she fed me.And I wrote for her.And when she kissed me that night, I did not resist.VI. The AngelThe third time I tried to leave, she did not stop me.She only stood there, silent, watching.And then—she wept.Not the wail of a woman scorned, but the silent, shaking sobs of a child abandoned.And I—God help me—I could not bear it.I crossed the room. I took her in my arms."I won’t leave," I whispered.And I did not.VII. The EditorMy books sold well.My editor, frantic, had sent message after message. Where are you? Your novels are a success. You are everywhere!At last, I answered.I sent a photo of Yongsun in my arms, her head against my chest, her smile serene.Beneath it, I wrote only three words:Meet my angel.VIII. The PoliceThey found us.The officers stood at the door, their voices sharp, their eyes wary."Sir, are you alright? Have you been taken against your will?"Yongsun did not speak.She only looked at me, silent, waiting.I looked at her.I saw the woman who had stolen me, starved me, bound me to her will.I saw the woman who had kissed me, held me, loved me when the world had forgotten her.I saw my angel.And I smiled."You misunderstand," I said. "This is my wife."The officers hesitated. They saw no struggle.And so, they left.IX. The Willing PrisonerI wake beside her each morning, her body curled against mine, her breath warm against my throat.I write for her.I love her.I wait for her when she leaves for supplies, my heart aching in her absence.I belong to her.Not by force.Not by fear.But by choice.And when she returns, when she crawls into my arms and whispers my name, I hold her close and murmur the only truth that matters."Meet my angel."