Those words melted something inside me.
A few weeks later, he asked,
“Would you take another picture for me?”
I thought about it for a long time.
A very long time.
But eventually, I did.
That one photograph became a second.
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Then a third.
Soon he started suggesting different outfits.
“Wear red this time.”
The next day,
“Take one in front of the mirror.”
Another day,
“Take this one in the kitchen. The light is softer there.”
And I did it.
At first, I enjoyed it.
Every time Adam wrote, “You look incredible,” I felt ten years younger.
But after a few months, something began to change.
If I didn’t send a picture, he became cold.
“Why not today?”
“Adam, I’m just not in the mood.”
“Okay… I guess I’m not as important to you as you are to me.”
And immediately, I would feel guilty.
So I would take another picture.
One evening, he asked for something that genuinely made me uncomfortable.
I refused.
He didn’t write to me for the entire night.
The next morning, I received a message.
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“Margaret, if you don’t trust me, at least be honest about it.”
That was the first time I stopped and thought,
“Is this really love… or am I simply doing everything he asks because I’m afraid he’ll disappear?”
That thought terrified me.
I decided to end it.
I wrote,
“Adam, I don’t think I’m going to send you any more pictures.”
His response came almost immediately.
Only three words.
“That’s your choice.”
I let out a breath of relief.
But one minute later, another message arrived.
It was simply a link.
I opened it.
And my entire body went cold.
There was a page on the screen.
One of my photographs.
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Then another.
Then another.
The photographs I had been absolutely certain only Adam had seen.
Below them were dozens of comments from strangers.
I started scrolling rapidly.
The photo I had taken in the kitchen.
The one in front of the mirror.
The one in the red outfit.
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