THE LOCKED ONE

She was never asleep.

That was the lie you told yourself to survive.

You said she was dormant, buried somewhere deep, wrapped in iron and silence. But every night she walked the corridors of your mind, barefoot on cold stone, guided only by distant stars flickering through cracks in a ceiling that was never meant to hold forever.

Her armor was not made of steel. It was made of restraint. Of swallowed words. Of anger folded neatly into obedience. Her skin carried the color of old wounds, dark and shining, polished by years of endurance. She stood before broken mirrors, searching not for beauty but for proof. Proof that she existed for a reason. Proof that this isolation was destiny, not punishment.

You built the prison carefully. Brick by brick. Rule by rule. You told yourself it was mercy.

“How cruel,” she used to whisper, “to save the world by erasing me.”

Decades passed in that inner exile. While you lived, smiled, worked, loved halfway, she sharpened herself on silence. Every ignored instinct. Every time you chose peace over truth. Every bridge you refused to burn even as it rotted beneath your feet. All of it fed her.

And then the end arrived. Not loud. Not sudden. Just quiet enough to be terrifying.

Now you walk the halls she knows better than you ever did. Oblivion echoes under your steps. The sound is familiar. It’s the same crack you felt every time you betrayed yourself. The same fracture spreading through your soul like glass under pressure.

She is waiting.

Not sitting. Not hiding. Standing.

The marble floor is stained with blood. Not yours. Hers. Her hands are torn open from the mirrors she finally shattered. No more reflections. No more pretending. She raises those broken hands toward you, fingers curled, not in invitation but accusation.

“Are you still happy?” she growls.

The question hits harder than any blade.

“Was it worth it?”

You hesitate. Your body wants to turn back. Your mind screams for excuses. But there is nowhere left to run. The halls behind you collapse silently, sealing the only path forward.

You step into the ring of broken glass. It cuts deep. You welcome it. Pain, at least, is honest.

“I couldn’t let you out,” you say, voice shaking but steady. “You would have burned everything. Every bridge. Every false peace. Every polite lie dressed as concern.”

She laughs. It’s not loud. It’s worse. It’s empty.

“And what did you save?” she asks.

You don’t answer. You already know.

Slowly, carefully, you reach for her. She is colder than death and hotter than regret. Her skin burns at your touch, like holding fire that has waited a lifetime to be seen. Every instinct tells you to let go.

You don’t.

You pull her close. For the first time, you feel whole. Heavy. Real.

“If I hadn’t locked you inside,” you whisper, breath fading as the temple around you begins to crumble, “we would have ended long before the end arrived.”

She softens. Just a fraction. Enough.

In that final moment, there is no victory. No redemption arc. Just truth. Just union.

The noise stops.

The stars dim.

You welcome the quiet together.

Not because you won.

But because you finally stopped running.