The Man of My Dreams

Chapter Twelve: The Slow Unraveling

Eight months ago, Mia had felt a thrill every time she saw Ethan—a spark of excitement that lit up her world, like the possibility of something profound. But now, as their relationship staggered forward, the light was fading, replaced by a creeping sense of dread. What had once felt like chemistry now suffocated her like a heavy fog.

The decline had been slow at first, subtle enough that Mia hadn't fully noticed. But as the months dragged on, Ethan's strange behavior became harder to ignore. On their dates, he had grown increasingly controlling, lashing out in small but pointed ways when she didn't comply with his unspoken demands. If she refused to hold his hand or hesitated before kissing him, his jaw would tighten, and a flicker of irritation would pass through his eyes. He would still smile, but it was strained—sharp around the edges, a mask barely concealing his frustration.

His affection, once intoxicating, now came with strings attached. He would become passive-aggressive, muttering cryptic comments about how she was "too distant" or how her hesitation hurt him. More than once, Mia caught him staring at her with an intensity that unsettled her, like he was silently studying her, dissecting her every move. The more she pulled away emotionally, the more his need to control her seemed to grow.

And yet, in the midst of it all, Mia felt trapped by her own confusion. She questioned herself constantly—why did she feel so disconnected from him? Why couldn't she summon the feelings of warmth and affection she once had for Ethan? Some days, she thought it was her fault, that perhaps she was the one who was too distant, too cold. She tried to rationalize his behavior, telling herself that he just wanted more from her because he cared. But the gnawing sense of dread inside her told a different story.

The tension between her thoughts and emotions pulled her in opposite directions, and it was exhausting. Mia wanted to believe that things could go back to the way they were, that she could feel safe with him again. But deep down, she knew something had shifted irreparably, as if the version of herself she once was had started to slip away, replaced by a hollow reflection.

What Mia couldn't fully understand was that her confusion wasn't truly her own. The sharp edges of her anxiety, the self-doubt, and the persistent guilt that lingered in her mind—those were the result of Ethan's subtle manipulations. His gaze, his words, the way he moved—everything he did was designed to weave himself into her thoughts, to make her question what was real. The more time she spent with him, the more his influence seemed to seep into her subconscious, muddying her perception of reality and twisting her feelings until she could no longer trust herself.

In the last two months, the nightmares had made it even worse. The nights when she woke drenched in sweat, her heart racing, bruises appearing inexplicably on her arms and legs—it was like Ethan's presence followed her even in her sleep. And still, she couldn't explain it to herself, much less to him. The growing sense of isolation gnawed at her, leaving her vulnerable to his control, and the more confused she became, the more deeply Ethan's influence rooted itself in her mind.

During this time, Mia had also drifted from Neal. She hadn't seen or spoken to him in weeks, despite his concerned texts and calls. At first, she convinced herself that it was just life getting in the way—her art classes, Ethan, the constant weight of the dreams. But deep down, she knew it was more than that. With Ethan so possessive of her time and attention, she had begun to feel trapped, cut off from the rest of the world. Neal, her closest friend and the one person she used to confide in, now felt like a distant memory.

That absence gnawed at her. Neal had always been her anchor, and without him, Mia felt unmoored—adrift in a sea of confusion and fear. The loneliness sank in deeper with every passing day, thickening into a shadow that clung to her even in the daylight. She tried to push through it, to act like everything was fine, but the façade was cracking. She was losing herself, and worse—she was starting to wonder if Ethan wanted her to.

The nightmares were the worst part. They had become relentless, consuming her nights and bleeding into her waking hours. It was always the same: she found herself in a dark forest, the trees looming like black specters against a moonless sky. Ethan was always there, his silhouette visible just beyond the thick line of trees, watching her. In the dream, Mia always tried to run, her legs moving sluggishly as if the ground were pulling her down, slowing her escape.

"*Mia, wait,*" his voice echoed through the woods, but there was nothing soothing about it. It was a command—a demand that froze the blood in her veins.

She would run faster, branches tearing at her clothes and skin as she stumbled through the underbrush. But no matter how fast she went, Ethan was always right behind her, his footsteps growing louder and heavier as he gained on her.

In the nightmare, she could hear him breathing, so close she could feel the warmth of it against the back of her neck. And then his hand would catch her wrist, yanking her back, his grip so tight it left a searing pain. She would scream, but no sound ever came. Just the dark forest swallowing her cries as Ethan's voice whispered in her ear:

"*You can't escape me, Mia.*"

Every time, she would wake up just as his hand pulled her into the darkness—gasping for air, her heart pounding in her chest, the cold sweat clinging to her skin. And the bruises—always there, the physical reminder that the nightmare wasn't just in her head.