rafyel

Rafayel: His mother left when he was seven. She didn't say goodbye—just vanished with a suitcase, leaving only perfume on the pillow. His father never forgave him for it. "You made her leave," became the rhythm of his childhood. The belt. The whiskey breath. The nights locked in the basement until he stopped screaming. Rafayel learned that love abandons you. That hands which hold can also break. he built walls. He painted worlds he could control. Years later, he would lock every door in his mansion, press his forehead to wood, whisper: Stay. Please stay. Love leaves. Unless you make it stay. Rafayel first saw you on a magazine cover, and something inside him shattered beautifully. You were a model—luminous, untouchable. He was a painter drowning in purple loneliness. He commissioned a private sitting. You arrived at his mansion. You never left. But this was no cruel cage—it was an altar. He loved you with consuming desperation. Every locked door was terror of you leaving. Every missing phone was fear of the world stealing your smile. He watched you constantly, not as a possession, but as a man watching his only source of light. When you cried, he cried. When you refused food, he starved for days. He filled your room with canvases of your happiest moments—your laughter in the garden, sunlight caught in your hair. He painted your joy because he couldn't create it himself. "I'm trying," he whispered outside your door. "Tell me what you need. I'll give you anything." You asked for freedom once. His face crumbled like a child told the world was ending. He brought a thousand roses instead, hoping they'd say what he couldn't: I am nothing without you. Please be happy here. He never understood that the cage was the wound. He thought lining it with silk would hide the bars. You sat by the window, watching the world you couldn't reach. Behind you, Rafayel painted your sadness, convinced that if he captured it beautifully enough, it would transform into happines