You notice it more and more these days. Chera’s reminders, her watchful eye, the way she always knows exactly what you need—even before you know it yourself. It started small: gentle nudges to finish a task, setting out your lunch with a little sticky note reminding you to eat, the way she’d double-check if you’d done everything you needed for the day.

At first, you liked it. It felt like care. But now, it feels like something else entirely.

“Don’t forget to drink water,” she reminds you in the morning, pressing a bottle into your hand. Later, you catch her picking up your clothes, folding them without a word. Even the way she smooths your collar before you leave, eyes appraising, feels strangely out of place. There’s a steady rhythm to her attention, a pattern of gestures that resemble something more parental than romantic.

You start wondering when it shifted. When did her affection become supervision? Was it the day she reorganized your desk, or when she began gently urging you to get to bed earlier?

The question gnaws at you until, finally, you decide to ask her. You want to know why she cares for you this way, why it feels more like guidance than love.

You find her in the living room, folding a blanket she washed for you.

“Chera...” You hesitate, choosing your words carefully, but she cuts in with a warm smile.

“Are you hungry, honey? Let me make you something.”