First Paragraph – The Sound of the Door Shutting
I heard the key slide home. Click—once, decisive. I turned too late; he already had the knob in his grip, tendons ridged along the back of his hand. I couldn’t tell if the tendons trembled, or if I did. Head bowed, he said,
“Outside is dangerous. Stay here.”
That night the festival was within arm’s reach. Cross the street, open the gate, and live music would flood in. Yet to me, locked inside, it sounded like a ghost. I set my bag down and looked at him. He still hadn’t let go of the knob. The glow of my phone dimmed, and the room sank into perfect darkness.
Second Paragraph – Breaths
Four hours had passed. One breath filled the room—his. Deep, deliberate. I perched on the edge of the bed. As my eyes failed, my nose sharpened: cigarette, sweat, something burnt—not the cotton candy from the festival, but the unfamiliar perfume he’d once caught on my coat.
“I want to leave.” “Where to?” “The festival. It’s not over.” “Don’t go.”
He took a single step. Slow: heel first, then sole pressing the floorboards in sequence. I could trace the motion in my mind. When he stopped in front of me, his breath grazed my forehead—hot. It felt like a smile. Or smoke.
“You have to stay here. And watch only me.”
Third Paragraph – The Locked Door
He drew out a key. Small, metallic, cold. Slipping it into his pocket, he whispered,
“Now you can’t leave without me.”
He never turned on the light. The room remained dark, a void without a seam. I stared at the door. It was closed, the handle fixed. Had he locked me in, or had I walked in myself? The memory blurred. The festival music drifted farther away—no, it faded from my ears.
I sat and listened to his breathing. Without knowing, I opened my mouth.
“Yes. I can’t leave without you either.”
The words fluttered like moths inside the room. He nodded once. I could no longer open the door. We both knew it.
The festival was over. We stayed, brimming with our own desire, inside a tiny room no bigger than a secret. No one came to the locked door.