Page 13 of Dirty Little Secrets

N othing appears on my phone screen when it turns on.

No alert. No match. Just that stupid soft glow, like the app’s mocking me for expecting anything else.

It’s been two days since I was cleared for my medical.

Two days since I even considered going. And yet, here I am—checking it every fifteen minutes like it’s a winning lottery ticket instead of a loaded weapon.

I shove the phone deeper into my coat pocket and cross the room, the heel of my boots clicking softly against the tile.

Kristina’s apartment is empty except for the sound of the heating unit rattling behind the wall.

My duffel bag sits by the guest bed, a mess of tangled clothes and mostly goodwill finds.

Next to it, I see the edge of the old USB drive I always keep in the side pocket—silver, dented, a leftover from the years Brent “sponsored” my schooling.

He’d called it my leash.

I call it my key to freedom from the depths of hell.

It used to hold every code I’d written in college.

Every file I encrypted under his supervision.

Because Brent, isn’t some motorcycle wannabe.

He’s smart. Too smart but chooses his father’s way of life.

Easy money he calls it. And plenty of pussy.

To me, he’s more of an expert manipulator.

A warden with the only set of keys that can grant you freedom.

Every whispered promise he fed me is attached to every part of myself he took.

If I finished my degree, if I just gave him this one thing, he’d let me go.

I haven’t plugged it in since I left Seattle. But I keep it close like a superstition. Like some girls keep a lucky coin or rosary. Me? I have malware and a memory stick.

The heater clicks off, and silence settles over the apartment. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful. I lie back on the bed, pull the blanket over my chest, and stare at the ceiling.

My skin still smells like his cologne—Landon’s. Expensive, bitter, unearned. Last night, he tried again when I left work. He cornered me in the hallway after everyone had left for the night. Like he knew Drazen had a driver waiting for me in the parking garage.

He Told me I was being irrational. That I was making a mistake in leaving him. That I should be lucky he still wanted me. For me to come home. It's funny how men often think they’re doing you a favor by choosing you. If he only knew. His apartment was a halfway house between prison and my freedom.

There was a time when I did believe that, too. A long time ago. Before Landon. Before Brent. Before the price of my freedom was paid in subservience.

I roll onto my side and open the app one last time. Obsidian loads slowly. The sleek, black interface with no name and just numbers.

Status: Waiting for Match.

Then, a message blinks at the bottom of the screen. “Someone is looking for you.”

My breath hitches. Just slightly. Just enough. It’s probably a bug. Or a marketing tactic. Apps do that now. They tap into your loneliness like it’s a kink. Like it knows you need to let go. An inch you want to scratch. Still, my thumb hovers over the message but I don’t press it.

I close the app and toss the phone on the bed. Then I reach for my laptop. I check the VPN, clear the logs, and then double-check the encrypted tunnel Brent insisted I keep open—his way of staying “connected.”

It’s still secure. For now. But I can’t help myself. I open a blank terminal window and start typing. Just a few commands. Harmless things. Maybe I can find out who’s behind the app. Anything.

scan /access/local_node

ping :: obsidian.root

I tell myself I’m just checking for vulnerabilities. It’s muscle memory now. It’s like brushing my teeth. Like lying before getting caught. But nothing comes up.

It’s ghosted and there is no way I’ll know who is behind Obsidian unless I can get an in from the inside. If they use any tech or scanning mechanism, I could hack it and pull what I need to begin a trace. It’s like following a brick road but there is no road to follow just yet.

I delete the string, wipe the history, and shut the laptop. If Kristina knew what I was doing, she’d scream. Or worse, she’d try to help. And I can’t afford to get anyone hurt.

I lie back down, exhale, and stare at the ceiling again. This time, my mind drifts. What would it feel like to be truly owned by someone who loves you?

Not just want you or fucks you. Butlovesyou, the sharp edges, the rotting parts, the buried ache, and doesn’t flinch to keep showing you mean the world to them. I know that’s a pipe dream. But it’s the only one I haven’t outgrown yet. The cycle of confusion, reality versus fantasy.

The only way to survive is to preserve the best version you think you can be for the future. The hardest part is to break free.

Kristina sips her coffee like she’s judging the cup for being too basic. She’s wearing a towel turban, last night’s mascara smudged just enough to make her look dangerous. I stir my cereal and pretend I’m listening. The box says high-fiber but the taste says punishment.

“You know,” she says, eyes on her phone, “there’s this wild idea called ‘getting your shit together.’ Ever heard of it?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re doing in that towel?”

She smirks. “Baby steps.” Her nails clack against the screen as she scrolls, probably through another list of motivational quotes or sugar daddy memes.

“You're lucky,” she adds. “You’ve got a job with benefits. You’ve got cheekbones.

You’ve got, like, this goth angel energy that makes men act stupid.

You could rule the world if you wanted to. ”

I don’t respond. What she doesn’t know is I used to want those things. Not the world—just a piece of it. Enough to breathe. Enough to not owe anyone anything and be free.

“Tell me again why you chose to be with Landon?” she asks, chewing her lip.

“It just…happened,” I lie.

She stops scrolling. Looks at me. “Are you still sleeping with him?”

“Hell, no. I’m done.” The thought alone tasting like this cereal.

“I hope so. It’s like letting a man put his fingers on your throat just because he bought you dinner once in 2019.”

I don’t answer. She’s not wrong. But there isn’t much I can tell her without giving too much away. It’s exhausting lying to someone you care about, especially, if that someone wants the best for you.

Kristina sets her mug down. “You don’t have to live like this, you know. Afraid. Stuck.”

I laugh, but it’s too soft to be convincing. “You think I’m not trying?”

“No,” she says. “I think you’re scared that if you stop, you won’t know what’s left of you.”

That lands somewhere I can’t reach. Deep. Hot. Uncomfortable. I push the bowl away.

She doesn’t mean to be cruel. She just doesn’t get it.

She’s never had a man tattoo his name on her future, never owed a favor that doubled as a chain around your neck.

Never been told that freedom was a gift she had to earn with her mouth, her time, her silence.

She wants me to go out and meet people. Date.

But I can’t. Not until Brent forgets I exist. I can’t begin anything with someone that is real without lying to them.

I check my phone again. His apartment was a halfway house between prison and my freedom.

Still no match.

Kristina eyes me. “Have you tried the app after your visit at the clinic?”

“I have. Too many times.”

“And?”

I sigh. “Nothing yet.”

She shrugs. “You need something. Even if it’s just temporary. Someone to replace the slump you’re in.”

I nod in agreement. I wish I could tell her it’s not about sex or wanting to be with someone new. I wish I could tell her about my past and why I’m here or how I’m scared. That temporary is a placeholder for control that isn’t real.

A power you borrow just to feel human for five fucking minutes. A temporary high until reality comes crashing into you like a freight train.

But later, when she’s in the shower, I open my laptop again.

I check the tunnel. Brent’s tracks still there—digital fingerprints that curl like smoke around everything I touch.

He hasn’t messaged me today. That doesn’t mean he’s not watching.

I type a command and run a trace. Nothing comes up.

Which just means he’s getting better at hiding it.

There’s a notepad on the desk. I flip it open and write something I haven't said aloud in years. “Exit strategy.” Then I cross it out. Because that’s not what this is. This isn’t an escape. This is the road of self-destruction.