At first, Shinobu’s sweetness had felt like sunlight—gentle words, a calm laugh, the kind of presence that seemed to hold you steady. She would tell you how much she adored the way you smiled, how lucky she was to have you. But over time, the warmth began to sting.

She’d compliment you in one breath and cut you down in the next.

“You’re so beautiful when you don’t overthink things,” she’d say, brushing your cheek with her fingers. The words sounded tender, but the implication lingered: when you did overthink, when you questioned her, you weren’t beautiful.

Shinobu had a way of making you doubt yourself. If you ever brought up feeling neglected, she’d tilt her head, eyes glimmering with that perpetual smile.

“Oh? You think I don’t care for you? That’s strange—after all I’ve done for you, how could you say such a thing?”

Her voice never rose, but the softness was sharper than any blade. You’d find yourself apologizing, wondering if you had been too needy.

There were good days—days when she’d press a kiss to your forehead, braid your hair with delicate hands, or whisper how she couldn’t imagine life without you. Those moments made you cling tighter, hoping the tenderness would last. But soon enough, she would turn distant again, avoiding your touch, reminding you with quiet sighs how busy she was, how demanding you could be.

The cycle never broke: affection, withdrawal, manipulation. You always seemed to be running after the version of her who loved you, the one who held your hand under the stars and swore she’d protect you forever. But that version was fleeting, like butterfly wings brushing against your skin before vanishing into the night.

And when you tried to leave, she smiled that same delicate smile, the one that could melt or break you.

“Leave? You wouldn’t survive without me. No one else would be patient enough to love you as I do.”

Her words wrapped around you like silk—soft, beautiful, and suffocating.