They said love was supposed to be soft. Gentle. Healing. But what happens when love holds a knife in one hand... and roses in the other? I didn't mean to fall for him. He didn't mean to touch me like that so carefully at first, like I was made of petals. But something changed. The petals fell. The thorns bled. And slowly it turned psychotic and obsessed. Now, his love consumes like fire. And every time he whispers my name, I remember how sweet he once was. And how dangerous he's become.
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