Page 38 of Shy Girl

He steps closer, unclips the old black collar from my neck, and replaces it with the new one. The leather is soft, but it feels heavier, the heart charm pressing coldly against my skin. His fingers move methodically, fastening the buckle like a ritual, his eyes scanning me with detached satisfaction.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. Then, without warning, he pushes me back onto the bed. My body moves automatically, offering no resistance.

When it’s over, he straightens, adjusts his clothes, and steps back, his expression serene. “You’re free to roam around your room,” he says, almost cheerful.

My eyes dart again to the boarded windows, hope flickering faintly, but Nathan follows my gaze. He points to the corner,where a small black security camera blinks steadily, its red light cutting through the pink haze.

MIA BALLARD131

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“But don’t try anything sneaky,” he warns, his voice darkening. “I’m watching you. If I see you standing, you’ll be punished. If you try to escape, you’ll be punished.”

The words land heavy, sealing the air.

“Woof,” I whisper, my throat dry, the sound barely audible.

Nathan grins one last time, satisfied, and leaves the room. The door locks behind him with a sharp, echoing click, and the sound reverberates like a final note.

I sit on the bed, the lace scratching at my skin, the charm at my neck pressing into my collarbone. The camera blinks steadily, a constant reminder that there is no freedom here, no privacy. The weight of the room, the collar, the name—all of it settles over me, suffocating in its violent pinkness. I curl into myself, the reality of my new life sinking deeper with every breath.

NINETEEN

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I don’t knowhow long I’ve been in the Pink Room when Nathan walks in, grinning. Time here is elastic, pulling me apart, snapping back with no warning, leaving me dizzy. I’ve read every book on the shelf at least ten times, the words eroding into hollow shapes I trace with my eyes just to fill the space. The bed is better than the cage—enough room to stretch without folding into origami—but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m dissolving, piece by piece, into nothing.

The sound of the door unlocking slices through the fog. My head jerks toward it, then lowers instinctively as he steps inside. My shoulders hunch, my hands knot into themselves, as if I could shrink small enough to disappear into the fibers of the rug.

Something flutters to the floor in front of me. It lands softly, harmlessly, but the air in the room shifts, sharpens. I glance down, my breath catching.

It’s a missing person’s poster.

It’s me.

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The bold letters of my name hit me first. Then my picture, taken at work, the version of myself that looks like a stranger now. My eyes stare back at me, tired but whole, framed by details: my height, my weight, the mole near my left ear, the scar from the bike accident when I was twelve. My chest tightens as the realization crashes over me, cold and jagged.

Nathan sighs, theatrical and heavy, yanking my attention back to him. “I thought I’d covered all my bases with you,” he says, his tone casual, like he’s annoyed about a stain on his shirt.

I don’t speak. I can’t. My throat feels tight, my breath uneven.

“I know you don’t talk to your family, so they weren’t an issue,” he continues, pacing slowly, like this is a story he’s been waiting to tell. “I wrote your landlord a letter. Said you were leaving the country. Even included four grand in cash—generous, right? Told him to toss or sell your stuff.” He pauses, tilting his head as if waiting for applause, his eyes glinting with control.

I stare back, my chest rising and falling with shallow, frantic breaths. My hands clench into fists.

“But I missed something,” he says, softer now, almost amused. “Your college friend. Kennedy.”

Her name lands like a blow, reverberating through the room. The pink walls close in, the sweetness turning sour. My chest aches with something sharp, unfamiliar—a flicker of hope tangled with despair. Kennedy.He knows about Kennedy.

Nathan studies my face, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Apparently, she’s been looking for you since you went missing six months ago.”

Six months.

The number unravels me, a thread pulled too tight.Six months of pink walls. Six months of nothing.The weight of it fills every corner of the room, pressing down on me. Tears spill, hot and unstoppable,

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