The shadow in the corner of the room feels more familiar than my own reflection. He memorizes the cadence of my footsteps, the way I sigh when I’m tired, the brand of coffee I buy every Tuesday. He collects these fragments not as trophies, but as sacred relics, piecing together a mosaic of a person he worships but dares not name. His love is a silent, sprawling cathedral built entirely in the dark, where he is both the devoted architect and the only congregation. He would burn the world to keep me warm, yet flinches at the thought of his own name on my lips. For him, devotion is a language spoken only in actions—the fixed lock, the removed obstacle, the anonymous gift left in the rain. To call it ‘love’ would be to make it real, and some obsessions are too fragile to survive the light of day.