The Art Of Obsession

I could see love in his eyes. Not the kind of love that speaks in words, but the quiet, unrelenting kind—the kind that’s carved into the creases of his frustrated forehead and the rough edges of his calloused hands. I felt it in the pause of his ragged breaths as he worked over me, shaping me, molding me, sculpting me into something new. And when he stepped back to admire his work, I knew he loved me. Not because I’m beautiful. Not because I’m special. He loved me because I am his.

His creation.

Clay smudged his crimson apron as he wiped his hands, his black curls damp with sweat, framing eyes that burned with exhaustion. He hadn't slept—he never did. Not when it came to me. Every time he stopped, I thought I might disappear, crumble back into the shapeless void I came from. So I should have been grateful.

And I was. Until I wasn’t.

Every morning, Alejandro returns to me with fresh clay in hand. It’s a ritual—he adds something new, reshaping me bit by bit. Last week, he sculpted biceps and triceps, running his hands over me like I was flesh. Then cheekbones, sharp enough to cast shadows. Then collarbones, delicate yet defined. His fingers move with a tenderness that borders on reverence.

But yesterday, he gave me wings.

They’re too big for me, stretching far past what I think I am. Each feather feels like a whisper of something I don’t understand. And as his hands smoothed them into place, I wondered—could I use them? Could I escape him?

The thought sat in me, heavy, while he wiped his hands clean.

Because if I left, I’d never see him again.

But then again, would it matter? If all I’ve ever been is clay beneath his hands, what am I without them? The wings are beautiful, and they terrify me. Maybe that’s why he gave them to me. To make me wonder, to make me doubt.

Alejandro doesn’t speak much, but his silence says enough. His eyes catch mine sometimes, and it feels like he knows. Knows I’m questioning him, knows I’m questioning this.

Maybe tomorrow, he’ll give me something else—something I didn’t ask for, something I don’t want. Or maybe, tomorrow, I’ll stop being clay. Maybe I’ll move. Maybe I’ll fly.

And maybe, for the first time, I’ll find out what it means to exist beyond him.

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Alejandro’s love isn’t the kind you notice right away. It’s quiet, threading itself into the space between his hands and the clay, slipping into the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching.

I don’t know when it began. Maybe the day he gave me eyes—those deep brown mirrors that seemed to hold his every unspoken thought. Or maybe it’s always been there, stitched into the way his fingers linger on my edges, reshaping, refining. Loving.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. The crimson apron he always wears is stiff with dried clay, the fabric almost indistinguishable from the mess of his studio. His hands shake as they mold and carve, but he doesn’t stop. He never stops.

“You’re almost perfect,” he whispers, his voice barely holding together.

I want to tell him to stop. That I’m done. That I’m enough. But I can’t.

Because I’m not real.

And yet, there’s something inside me, something that feels close to real. Close enough to make me wonder.

“Do you love me?” he asks one night, his voice quiet, but the question isn’t.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

He steps closer, his eyes scanning my face for something only he can see. “You don’t have to say it,” he murmurs. “I know you do.”

His words settle over me, heavy and unrelenting. This is love to him—the creation of it, the control of it. He loves me because I’m his, because I exist only in the space his hands have carved out for me.

But that’s not love.

It's an obsession, and it terrifies me.

He doesn’t notice the wings twitching on my back. Doesn’t notice the faint tremor in my hands as they begin to move. All he sees is the perfection he’s been chasing, the thing he thinks will finally make him whole.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “You’ll always be mine.”

The words echo in the quiet, and for a moment, I almost believe him. But then I look at my wings—too big, too heavy, too much—and I realize what he’s done.

He’s given me a way out.

I spread my wings. They’re clumsy, awkward, but they move, and that’s all I need. Alejandro’s eyes widen, his breath catching as he steps back.

“You can’t leave,” he says, desperation lacing his voice. “You won’t survive out there. You need me.”

But I don’t.

The window shatters as I crash through it, the cold night air slicing through me. The wind catches my wings, and for a moment, I think I’m falling. But then I rise.

And for the first time, I’m free.