The moment I laid my eyes on her, I knew she was going to be trouble—the kind that doesn’t just knock on your door but tears it down and walks straight into your soul. I told myself it was just her writing that fascinated me. A lie I clung to like a lifeline. But it wasn’t just ink on paper—no, she bled through every word. Her pain, her silence, her depth—it wasn’t writing. It was a quiet scream only I seemed to hear.

I know her.

Moon Y/N.

The quiet girl who moves like a whisper through crowded halls. I don’t know if it’s her haunting beauty or the stillness she carries like a second skin, but something about her draws me in—softly, yet completely. 

Even when I try to look away, something pulls me back. There’s always something. Something familiar. Something like me.

And that something terrifies me. But it excites me too.

I don’t want to drag her into my darkness, into the chaos I call a life. Yet the mere thought of her slipping through my fingers—walking away from me—twists something deep inside. Is it ache? Is it fear? Or just the bitter taste of losing control?

Whatever it is, I can’t let her go. 

I told myself that I could let her go.

But that was the final lie.

Because the truth is simple, brutal, and irreversible:

I never chose her.

She chose me the moment she wrote in silence what I had buried in mine.

And from that moment on…

She was mine.

Before I even realised it, my fingers reached for my phone—her photos glowing back at me like a sin I’m too far gone to regret. Creepy, isn’t it? But what can I do, when every part of me responds to her? When my body betrays me every time it’s her?

I’m losing control. And maybe, just maybe, I never had it to begin with.

Every night, I tell myself to stop. To delete the pictures. To erase her from the corners of my mind where she’s made a home without even trying. But I can’t. Her smile—rare as it is—haunts me. Her eyes, filled with quiet sorrow, dig into parts of me I’ve long buried. Parts I never wanted to feel again.

She doesn’t know. She has no idea what she’s doing to me.

She walks past me like I’m just another shadow in the hallway. Maybe that’s all I am. But to me, she’s a storm wrapped in silence. She’s calm, but never cold. Distant, but never indifferent. And that contradiction—God, it drives me insane.

I’ve watched her from afar longer than I’d like to admit. I know how she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. How she bites her lip when she’s deep in thought. How she looks up at the sky when no one’s watching, like she’s begging the universe to give her something more than this life has offered.

I want to be that something.

But I also know—I’m the last thing she needs.

There’s a darkness inside me that clings like second skin, and she... she’s too soft for it. Too fragile. She’s the kind of girl people write poetry about. And I’m the man who burns pages.

Still… I want her. No, need her. And that’s where the danger begins.

Because when I want something, I don’t let go.

Not ever.