He’s not just missing.
He’s been taken.
Maybe he’s dead.
My fingers tremble as I type.
Emily: Who is this?
No reply.
I hug myself tightly, still staring at the box like it might come alive.
I should call the police.
But what if they think I did it? What if they arrest me?
My legs threaten to buckle, panic climbing my throat like it wants to strangle me.
I stumble into the kitchen, flinging open cupboard doors in a daze, desperate for something—anything—to make this feeling stop.
The first explosion of sweetness on my tongue dulls the panic, softens its edges. It’s still there, just… quieter.
I inhale the first biscuit. Then another. And another.
By the time I register what I’m doing, the entire pack is gone.
I stare down at the empty wrapper. That’s when guilt slithers in. Cold. Familiar.
My mother’s voice echoes through my head:
You shouldn’t eat that.
Gosh, you’ve gotten big.
Your ass is getting so fat—you should stop eating.
It won’t hurt you to skip a meal. You’ve got enough cushioning as it is.
Over and over. The same sharp words, dressed as concern.
She never meant to hurt me.
But she did.
I sink to the floor, tears falling faster than I can stop them, my body trembling with the weight of it all.
Eli
Emily hits the floor, her sobs violent and relentless, her body shaking as if every tear is ripping her apart.
I watched her open the box, enjoyed the fear that flashed across her face, her shock, the tremor in her hands. But then I watched as she devoured an entire pack of Hobnobs in under ten minutes, her desperation palpable in the way she stuffed the biscuits into her mouth, her breath ragged. And now, I can’t shake the restlessness in my chest, the urge to reach out, to stop her from falling apart.
I never meant for this to happen. I didn’t realise how deeply my actions would affect her. She’s a puzzle I’ve been obsessed with for so long, but I hadn’t considered this… The raw, broken side of her. The part of her that I didn’t want to see. And now it’s haunting me.
There’s an ache in my chest, a heavy pressure, one that refuses to fade no matter how much I rub at it, trying to make the sensation go away. I hurt her. I fucking hurt her. The realisation hits harder than anything I’ve ever done. She’s crying because of me.
I watch the camera feed, my pulse quickening as she picks herself off the floor. She’s fragile—shaking, her hands unsteady as she reaches for a glass of water. The way she moves, slow and cautious, tells me she’s still unravelling. She pulls herself together only enough to get under the sheets, her face a mask of exhaustion and defeat.