Manya sat across from Mudit at the dinner table, the flickering candle between them casting shadows that felt too real. Mudit leaned back, his expression a mix of calm and control, as always.
"You’ve been so forgetful lately," Mudit said, a smile playing on his lips. "You left the door unlocked again. I had to fix it, as usual."
Manya’s heart sank. She distinctly remembered locking it, but every time Mudit pointed out her mistakes, she felt herself doubting her own memory. "I… I thought I did lock it."
Mudit chuckled, his eyes narrowing. "There you go again, Manya. Always questioning yourself. If I weren’t here, who knows what mess you’d be in by now."
His words cut deeper than the calm tone suggested. Mudit loved to be her savior, but only after making her feel small, weak, like she couldn’t handle anything without him. Manya had noticed how often her mistakes seemed to revolve around him—the keys she misplaced, the forgotten appointments. But how could she argue when he seemed so perfect?
"You should be grateful," he continued, his voice softening, though his words stung just as much. "No one else would put up with this. I do it because I love you, Manya. But you need to try harder."
Manya swallowed, feeling the familiar guilt wash over her. Mudit was right—he always made her feel like he was. No one else could love her the way he did. Or so he made her believe.
Weeks passed, and Manya’s self-doubt grew, but so did her awareness of Mudit's constant manipulation. Every time he "saved" her from a mistake, he reminded her of how incompetent she was, how lucky she was to have him. His narcissism shone through in his constant need for validation, using her insecurities to make himself feel powerful.
One evening, Manya found a note on the counter: Pick up dry cleaning. The handwriting was neat—too neat. She turned to Mudit, who watched her closely, a smirk playing on his lips.
"You wrote that, remember?" he said, his voice laced with condescension.
Manya hesitated. "No, I didn’t."
Mudit’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. "Why are you always trying to fight me, Manya? I do everything for you, and this is how you repay me? Always questioning, always doubting."
His voice grew sharper, cutting through the room. The love he spoke of twisted into something darker, something possessive. Mudit thrived on making her feel like she was losing her mind, because in his world, that meant she needed him more.
But this time, Manya saw it for what it was. "No, Mudit," she said, her voice steady. "You’re the one who’s making me question myself. And I’m done letting you do that."
For a moment, Mudit’s facade cracked, the flicker of anger in his eyes betraying the calm mask he wore. But Manya didn’t waver. She blew out the candle between them, plunging the room into darkness.
"I’m not your victim anymore."
"You’ve been so forgetful lately," Mudit said, a smile playing on his lips. "You left the door unlocked again. I had to fix it, as usual."
Manya’s heart sank. She distinctly remembered locking it, but every time Mudit pointed out her mistakes, she felt herself doubting her own memory. "I… I thought I did lock it."
Mudit chuckled, his eyes narrowing. "There you go again, Manya. Always questioning yourself. If I weren’t here, who knows what mess you’d be in by now."
His words cut deeper than the calm tone suggested. Mudit loved to be her savior, but only after making her feel small, weak, like she couldn’t handle anything without him. Manya had noticed how often her mistakes seemed to revolve around him—the keys she misplaced, the forgotten appointments. But how could she argue when he seemed so perfect?
"You should be grateful," he continued, his voice softening, though his words stung just as much. "No one else would put up with this. I do it because I love you, Manya. But you need to try harder."
Manya swallowed, feeling the familiar guilt wash over her. Mudit was right—he always made her feel like he was. No one else could love her the way he did. Or so he made her believe.
Weeks passed, and Manya’s self-doubt grew, but so did her awareness of Mudit's constant manipulation. Every time he "saved" her from a mistake, he reminded her of how incompetent she was, how lucky she was to have him. His narcissism shone through in his constant need for validation, using her insecurities to make himself feel powerful.
One evening, Manya found a note on the counter: Pick up dry cleaning. The handwriting was neat—too neat. She turned to Mudit, who watched her closely, a smirk playing on his lips.
"You wrote that, remember?" he said, his voice laced with condescension.
Manya hesitated. "No, I didn’t."
Mudit’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. "Why are you always trying to fight me, Manya? I do everything for you, and this is how you repay me? Always questioning, always doubting."
His voice grew sharper, cutting through the room. The love he spoke of twisted into something darker, something possessive. Mudit thrived on making her feel like she was losing her mind, because in his world, that meant she needed him more.
But this time, Manya saw it for what it was. "No, Mudit," she said, her voice steady. "You’re the one who’s making me question myself. And I’m done letting you do that."
For a moment, Mudit’s facade cracked, the flicker of anger in his eyes betraying the calm mask he wore. But Manya didn’t waver. She blew out the candle between them, plunging the room into darkness.
"I’m not your victim anymore."
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