Sofia
The day bled into evening, marked only by the shifting light outside the dorm apartment window and the growing ache in my chest. Max's deliberate coldness, his calculated distance, was a far more potent weapon than any shouted accusation. It was the silence between us, heavy with unspoken truths and shattered expectations, that truly suffocated me. He was here, sometimes, a phantom presence. I'd hear the soft click of his laptop, the rustle of papers, the low murmur of calls I couldn't discern. But he never looked at me, never offered a word beyond a clipped instruction or a stark reminder of my confinement.
My mind replayed his words from last night, the brief, agonizing glimpse of vulnerability: "You are… you are something I never expected. Something I shouldn't have allowed myself to feel. But now that it's here, I have to protect it. Protect you." And then, the swift, brutal retraction. The Max who had spoken those words was gone, replaced by the Max who was actively trying to make me resent him. It was a cruel irony. He was protecting me by pushing me away, by making me feel like a burden.
The small bedroom, once a temporary refuge, now felt like a prison. My textbooks lay open, unread. My notes, usually filled with diligent annotations, remained blank. My phone, still Max's, lay charging on the desk, a symbol of my controlled connection to the outside world. I hadn't dared call Clara again, not wanting to put her through more worry, or worse, to inadvertently expose myself further.
I paced the cramped space, my frustration building with each silent minute. The campus outside beckoned, a vibrant, living entity I was barred from. I could hear snippets of laughter drifting up from the streets, the distant strains of music from another apartments. Life was happening out there, and I was trapped.
A sudden, sharp knock at the door startled me. My heart leaped, expecting Max. But it was Chloe, his assistant, holding a tray with two plates covered by cloches. Her expression was as unreadable as ever.
"Dinner, Sofia," she stated, her voice flat. She set the tray on the small table, her movements precise. "Mr. Maxwell said to ensure you eat."
Another delegated task. Another reminder of my non-status. "Thank you, Chloe," I said, trying to infuse some warmth into my voice, but it felt hollow.
She nodded, her gaze briefly flickering towards me, assessing. "Is there anything else you require?"
"No, I don't think so," I replied, feeling a desperate urge to ask her something, anything, about Max, about Mark, about what was actually happening. But her professionalism was an impenetrable shield.
She turned to leave, and the door clicked shut with that familiar, soul-numbing finality. I lifted the cloche. A perfectly plated meal sat beneath – grilled salmon, asparagus, wild rice. It was the kind of food that should be enjoyed in a fancy restaurant, not eaten in silence in a small college dorm room, under invisible surveillance.
I picked at the food, the taste bland in my mouth. My appetite had vanished hours ago, replaced by a knot of anxiety and a growing sense of injustice. He was treating me like a prisoner, a valuable package to be kept safe, but utterly devoid of agency or feeling.
As darkness fully enveloped the campus, I heard Max's door open and close again. He was back. I tensed, anticipating his return to our shared space, dreading it. But he didn't come. I heard the faint rustle of papers, the distant click of a keyboard from his study area. He was working. He was always working, always strategizing.
The silence grew heavier. I tried to focus on anything else, to distract myself from the crushing weight of his deliberate absence. I walked to the window, pulling back the curtain. The campus was bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, a scattering of figures still moving across the quad, heading towards the library or late-night study sessions. I imagined my friends out there, living their lives, unaware of my bizarre confinement.
A desperate need for answers, for connection, welled up inside me. I was tired of being a pawn, of being moved on a board I couldn't see. I was tired of his silence, his deliberate coldness.
I turned from the window, my gaze falling on the closed door to Max's study. I needed to confront him. I needed to break through this wall he was building between us. But as I took a tentative step towards it, my hand reaching for the doorknob, I hesitated. What if he shut me down completely? What if the vulnerability I'd glimpsed was truly gone, swallowed by his calculated detachment?
The thought of facing his cold, unreadable gaze, of having my fears confirmed, was almost unbearable. He was deliberately trying to make me hate him, to make me not care. And the terrifying truth was, it was starting to work. The warmth I'd felt for him, the dizzying rush of intimacy, was slowly congealing into a bitter resentment.
I pulled my hand back from the door, defeated. He wasn't just building physical walls around me; he was building invisible ones, psychological barriers designed to protect himself, and in doing so, isolating me completely. The gilded cage was no longer just a place; it was a state of mind. And I was trapped within it, watching the last embers of hope for a genuine connection with Max slowly flicker and die.