I've been in my room for hours, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. I don't know what to do with myself. My mind is a whirlwind, spinning faster and faster, and it's all because of her. She's in my head, in my blood, and no matter what I do, I can't get her out.
I try to distract myself, flipping through channels on the TV, scrolling aimlessly on my phone, but nothing works. Everything reminds me of her—the way she flips her hair, the sound of her laughter, the look in her eyes when she's pretending she doesn't care. It's torture. Absolute fucking torture.
I throw my phone down on the bed, frustration boiling inside me. I can't take this anymore. I need to see her. Just the thought of being close to her, of feeling her presence, sends a rush of adrenaline through me. It's like a drug, this obsession. And I'm so fucking addicted.
I grab my jacket, not caring that it's late, not caring about anything except finding her. The night air is cool, biting at my skin as I step outside, but it barely registers. My mind is locked on one thing, and one thing only.
I start walking, my steps quickening with every beat of my heart. I know where she is—she's always at that damn café, pretending to study, surrounded by her friends. And those guys. Those fucking guys. The thought of them makes my blood boil. They don't know her like I do. They don't understand her. They don't deserve to be anywhere near her.
As I approach the café, I spot her through the window, sitting at her usual table, a book open in front of her. She's laughing at something one of her friends said, and it hits me like a punch to the gut. How can she be so carefree, so fucking happy, when I'm like this? When I'm burning up inside because of her?
I hesitate at the door, my hand hovering over the handle. What am I even doing here? What am I going to say to her? But the questions fade away as soon as I see one of those guys lean in closer to her, his hand brushing against hers. The fire inside me roars to life, and before I know it, I'm pushing the door open and walking straight towards her.
She looks up as I approach, her smile fading when she sees the look on my face. "Abdullah?" she says, her voice tinged with surprise and something else—maybe concern, maybe fear. I don't care.
"Can we talk?" I say, my voice hard, my eyes locked on hers. The guy next to her shifts uncomfortably, but I don't even glance at him. He's nothing. Just another fucking obstacle between me and what I want.
She glances at her friends, then back at me. "Um, sure," she says, standing up slowly. "Let's go outside."
I follow her out, my heart pounding in my chest, the tension between us thick and suffocating. Once we're outside, away from the prying eyes of her friends, I can't hold back any longer.
"What the hell are you doing?" I ask, my voice low and rough.
"What do you mean?" she asks, crossing her arms defensively.
"You know exactly what I mean," I snap. "You're playing games, talking to those guys, acting like you don't know how I feel."
She blinks, her eyes wide with surprise. "I'm not playing games, Abdullah. They're just my friends."
"Friends?" I scoff, stepping closer to her. "Is that what you call it?"
"Yes," she says, her voice firmer now. "And even if it wasn't, it's none of your business."
That stings, more than I want to admit. "None of my business?" I repeat, my voice rising. "You think I don't have a right to care? After everything we've been through?"
She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Abdullah, you're making this into something it's not. You can't control who I talk to, who I'm friends with."
I stare at her, the words not even registering. All I can think about is how close she is, how much I want to grab her, to kiss her, to make her understand what she means to me.
"I'm not trying to control you," I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds like a lie. "I just—fuck, I just need you to stop making me feel like this."
"Like what?" she asks, her voice softening just a little.
"Like I'm losing my fucking mind," I admit, my voice breaking. "Like I can't breathe unless I'm near you. Like nothing else matters."
There's a long silence, and for a moment, I think she might say something, that she might finally understand. But then she just shakes her head, a sad smile on her lips.
"Abdullah, I can't be responsible for your feelings. You need to figure this out on your own."
Her words hit me like a cold wave, dousing the fire inside me, leaving me standing there, empty and lost. I don't know what to say, don't know how to make her see what she's doing to me.
"Maybe we should take a break," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Give each other some space."
Space? That's the last thing I want, the last thing I can handle. But I can see in her eyes that she's already made up her mind, and there's nothing I can do to change it.
"Fine," I say, my voice hollow. "Whatever you want."
She nods, but she doesn't look happy. "I'll see you around," she says, and with that, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, feeling more alone than I ever have.
I watch her go, my fists clenched, my heart pounding. This isn't over. It can't be. I won't let it be.
The days after our conversation are a blur of rage and obsession. Her words echo in my head like a relentless drumbeat: "You need to figure this out on your own." It's all I can think about, the way she looked at me, like I was some sort of problem she needed to solve. Like I wasn't good enough. Like I wasn't already hers.
But she's wrong. She's always been mine. And if she can't see that, then I'll just have to show her. The thoughts churn in my mind, dark and twisted, as I watch her from a distance.
And then there's him. One of the guys from that damn café. I don't even know his name, but it doesn't matter. I see the way he looks at her, the way he leans in too close when they talk, like he has any right to be near her. It makes me sick. It makes me furious.
I follow him for days, learning his patterns, his habits. He's predictable, just like the rest of them. Too caught up in his pathetic little life to notice the danger creeping up on him. I don't feel a shred of guilt. He's nothing—just an obstacle in my way. A pawn in a game he doesn't even realize he's playing.
Tonight is the night. I can feel it in my bones, a deep, primal urge that I can't ignore. It's time to make my move, to send a message that she won't be able to ignore. A message that will remind her who she belongs to.
It's late when he leaves the café, the streets quiet and empty. He walks with his hands in his pockets, headphones in, oblivious to the world around him. I follow at a distance, keeping to the shadows, my heart pounding with anticipation.
He turns down an alleyway, and I move in closer, my breath quickening. This is it. This is where it ends.
I move quickly, silently, closing the distance between us in an instant. Before he can react, I grab him from behind, one arm around his throat, the other pulling a knife from my jacket. He struggles, but he's weak, panicked. I feel nothing but cold satisfaction as I press the blade to his side.
"You shouldn't have touched her," I whisper, my voice low and venomous.
His eyes widen in terror, and he tries to speak, to plead, but it's too late. I drive the knife into his side, feeling the resistance of flesh and bone as the blade sinks deep. He lets out a strangled gasp, his body convulsing as I twist the knife, ensuring maximum pain.
Blood pours from the wound, warm and slick, soaking into my clothes. I don't stop. I can't stop. I pull the knife out and stab again, and again, and again, each thrust of the blade fueled by the image of her with him, her smile, her laughter.
By the time I'm done, he's nothing but a bloody, broken mess on the ground. His eyes are glassy, staring up at nothing, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. I stand over him, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my hands trembling with the rush of adrenaline.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring down at what I've done, at the blood dripping from the knife, pooling around his lifeless body. It should horrify me, but it doesn't. It feels right. Necessary.
I wipe the knife on his shirt, clean and methodical, before slipping it back into my jacket. The streets are still empty, silent, as if the world itself is holding its breath. I take one last look at the body, then turn and walk away, disappearing into the night.
She'll find out soon enough. And when she does, she'll know it was me. She'll understand that this is what happens when someone tries to take her away from me.
She's mine. She's always been mine.
And now, she'll never be able to forget it.