9:03 PM.
Rain pounded the windows, relentlessly, like someone tapping insistently on a coffin lid. Cold. Sharp. Unforgiving.
I sat at my desk. Textbook open. Pen poised. Words blurring. My eyes skipped lines as my mind refused to focus.
There's only one week left. One week for exams. One week for everything I'm supposed to be.
And my house… my house was a storm that didn't care about deadlines.
"What the hell is your problem, Varza? Why can't you shut up for once?"
My father's voice sliced through the hallway.
"Do you have to cry over everything?"
My mother's cracked reply followed, desperate:
"How can you choose another woman over me? How many times will you do this to me? Wasn't I enough for you?"
"Enough?" His bitter laugh cut her off.
"You were never enough."
Shards of glass, shouting, sobbing.
The chaos settled in my chest like ice. I closed my book.
This woman. Begging. Hoping. Pathetic.
Does she think pleading will soften him? I've told her. Your place is gone. Stop imagining he'll return. Stop believing in your role as the heroine in some tragic romance.
But she won't. She can't. Delusion is safer than truth.
The argument escalated. A plate shattered. A chair scraped. My patience snapped.
I opened my door.
"WHY CAN'T YOU BOTH BEHAVE FOR ONCE?"
The shouting paused.
"Don't you see I have exams? You keep fighting and expect me to get the highest marks? For once, stop being selfish! You have children too! How long are you going to fight just for yourselves?"
My voice shook – not with weakness. With rage.
I didn't cry. Tears are surrender.
I grabbed my hoodie and walked into the night.
Rain soaked me instantly. Cold. Cleansing. Sharp. Perfect.
I walked until the noise faded, until I reached the old playground at the corner of the street.
Swings swayed empty in the wind. Streetlights flickered like they were hesitant to watch. I sat on a wet bench. Still. Silent. Nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.
Marcos.
"Hey. What's up? How's the preparation going?"
I stared at the screen. A slow, calculating exhale.
"I'm not studying right now. I'm not home."
Almost instantly:
"What? Then where are you? It's late, it's raining. Are you with someone?"
Predictable. Always predictable.
"No. I'm alone at the playground near Maple Street. I didn't feel well, so I left."
Five minutes. Silence.
Perfect.
He's coming.
People always come when you show just enough fracture. Not too much. Just enough to make them feel needed.
I let my shoulders slump slightly. Soft. Vulnerable. Believable.
Footsteps approached – uneven, hurried.
I didn't look immediately. Let him see me first.
When I finally looked up, there he was – damp hair, tense posture, eyes scanning me like I might vanish. Concern painted clear lines across his face.
Ah. There it is. Pure. Unfiltered.
"Why are you here, Marcos?" I asked, voice controlled, faintly startled.
"I'm here to make sure you're safe, Lune."
Tense. Serious. No amusement tonight.
"Are you out of your mind? Why are you alone at this hour?"
I turned away. Silence works better than words.
A single tear slid down. Calculated. Precise.
He came closer, sat beside me.
"Why are you crying? Did I say something? Did someone hurt you? Lune, please…"
He reached for my cheek.
I recoiled sharply.
"Don't touch me. I can wipe them myself."
He froze. "Sorry. I didn't think."
Good. Guilt. Already.
"What happened?" he asked softly.
I inhaled slowly.
"I can't study at home. My parents won't stop fighting."
Pause.
"Two days before the farewell… it was my 17th birthday."
He waited. I let the words hang.
"My dad married another woman that day."
The rain softened, or maybe I just stopped hearing it.
"Why would he ruin it like that?" I whispered.
"And now they argue every night. There's so much noise. They expect me to get into my dream college but my mind is blank. I can't focus. I can't remember anything."
Tears again. Slightly real. Slightly performance.
Marcos' jaw tightened.
"I'm so sorry you're going through that."
Sympathy. Attachment. Desire to rescue. All visible.
"I can't fix what happened," he continued, voice low, steady, "but don't stress about the exams. I'll help you in the exam hall. Just do what you can. Leave the rest to me."
I didn't reply.
Not immediately.
I tilted my head, pretending to think. Let the silence stretch. Make him squirm a little.
"You don't… have to," I finally whispered, my voice brittle, like I might crumble at any second.
He blinked. His jaw tightened slightly.
"I want to," he said. Calm. Certain.
I scoffed softly, pulling my hoodie tighter around my shoulders. "You think I can trust anyone to do my work for me?"
"I'm not doing your work," he said. "I'm helping you survive the exam."
I let a sigh escape me – exaggerated, faint, deliberate.
"Why do you care so much? You barely know me."
"I know enough," he said.
He thinks he knows me. That word. Delicious.
I shook my head, eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't need anyone."
"You think you don't," he said softly, "but I'm not going anywhere."
I blinked slowly. A single tear traced down my cheek – carefully placed, like the brushstroke of a painting. I let him reach out instinctively.
"You think this will work on me?" I whispered, voice trembling in the way he could misread. "Do you think I'll let you help me that easily?"
His gaze didn't falter. "I'll do whatever it takes."
I tilted my head back, letting the rain from outside blur in the reflection on my wet hair. Let him feel the storm and my fragility in the same moment.
"Promise?" I finally asked. Not as a question, as a test.
"I promise," he said.
I let a small, almost imperceptible smile slip. Not relief. Not gratitude. Power.
"Good. Then… I'll allow it," I said lightly, as if granting mercy to a subject.
He exhaled softly, a mixture of tension and relief washing over him.
Perfect. Hooked. Already trying.
I studied his reaction carefully. How quickly he'd bend. How far he'd go.
It's funny… people call this love.
I call it leverage.
He walked me home.
Outside my gate, I gave a small wave. Eyes glossy, but sparking. A look designed to stick – just enough to let him think he mattered.
He smiled. He's hooked. Already. I didn't need to see him sweat; I just knew.
I entered the house. Silent. Dead quiet. They were asleep. Two people who destroyed each other and called it love. I felt nothing.
"I hate you both," I whispered. Count your days.
I closed my door.
And laughed. Not loud, not frantic. Just quiet. Controlled. Like ice breaking on a still lake –calm on the surface, deadly beneath.
Tomorrow… the game begins.
I lay on my bed, eyes tracing the ceiling cracks. The storm outside, the storm inside – both obeyed me now.
Marcos thinks he's protecting me. He thinks he's needed. He doesn't know he's already playing my game.
They bleed for what they desire.
I bleed for nothing.
Every heartbeat he offers me is currency. Every thought he wastes on me is debt he cannot repay.
I smiled again. Not relief. Not triumph. Domination.
One week. One week to break him, shape him, own him – and he'll thank me for it.
Perfect.
The rain tapped the windows. Sharp. Insistent. Relentless. Like everything I do.
People call it love.
I call it leverage.
And I always collect what I'm owed.