Sophie’s POV
Two days of cold silence.
After the fight about Olivia, Bellamy and I circle each other like wary animals.
I stay in my room mostly, only emerging for meals that we eat in strained quiet. Bellamy keeps his distance—no more attempts at conversation, no more shared walks, no more trying to make this comfortable.
Which is what I wanted. What I needed.
So why does the silence feel worse than the talking?
On the third evening, I'm bored and restless. I've read the same page of my book four times without absorbing a single word. The walls of the bedroom feel like they're closing in. I need space that isn't this small room, air that doesn't smell like my own stale anxiety.
I emerge to find Bellamy in the living room, watching TV. Some action movie with explosions and car chases—the kind of mindless entertainment that requires no emotional investment.
He looks up when I enter, surprise flickering across his face. We haven't been in the same room voluntarily since the park.
I don't say anything. Just walk to the couch and sit on the opposite end—as far from him as physically possible while still being on the same piece of furniture.
It's the first time I've initiated any shared activity since being brought here.
Bellamy glances at me again, clearly uncertain how to respond. But he doesn't comment. Doesn't ask what I'm doing or why I'm here. Just turns his attention back to the screen.
We watch in silence. On screen, the hero is doing something impossibly dangerous while quipping one-liners.
It's ridiculous, completely divorced from reality. And exactly what my brain needs right now—something that requires no thought, no emotional processing, just passive consumption.
The silence between us isn't comfortable, but it's not actively hostile either. We're just two people existing in the same space, watching the same images flicker across the screen.
During a particularly absurd scene—the hero somehow survives a fall from a building by landing in a conveniently placed dumpster—Bellamy makes a dry comment. "Well, that's definitely medically accurate."
The delivery is so deadpan, so perfectly timed with the ridiculousness on screen, that I laugh before I can stop myself.
A real laugh—not polite, not forced. Genuine amusement at the shared absurdity of what we're watching.
The sound leaves my mouth and I immediately freeze, the laugh dying mid-breath.
‘What am I doing?’
"I'm not supposed to laugh with you," I say, the words tumbling out almost involuntarily. Speaking more to myself than to him.
Bellamy turns to look at me. His expression is unreadable in the TV's flickering light.
"Why not?" His voice is quiet, genuinely curious. "Because I did something terrible, we're not allowed to be human with each other?"
"Yes." The word comes out flat, certain. "Exactly that."
"That seems like it would make this harder for both of us."
I want to argue, want to tell him that it should be hard, that he doesn't deserve comfort or companionship or shared moments of levity after what he's done. But the words stick in my throat.
Because he's right, isn't he? Being constantly hostile, constantly at war, constantly refusing any moment of normalcy—it's exhausting. It takes energy I don't have, it makes every second in this apartment feel like torture.
And maybe that's what I deserve. Maybe that's the appropriate response to being kidnapped. Maybe letting my guard down for even a moment is a betrayal of Adrian, of Amelia, of myself.
But I'm so tired. Tired of being angry every second. Tired of the tension that makes my shoulders ache and my jaw hurt from clenching. Tired of treating every interaction like a battle.
I don't respond to Bellamy's observation. Can't bring myself to agree with him, but can't argue either.
I don't leave, though, that's the crucial part. I stay on the couch, on my end, and we continue watching the movie.
The silence between us shifts. Becomes slightly less suffocating. The tension in the air eases by a fraction—not gone, not even close, but... less.
It's not comfort. It's definitely not friendship. But it's less hostile than it was five minutes ago.
And that shift, small as it is, terrifies me more than the anger ever did.
Because anger is simple, anger is clear. Anger keeps the lines drawn, keeps me aware of exactly where I am and what's happening and who he is.
This? This easing of tension? This almost-companionship? This is dangerous.
This is how it starts, I think. This is how people normalize the unacceptable. This is how captives start to sympathize with their captors. This is how Stockholm syndrome takes root—not in grand gestures or dramatic moments, but in small, quiet instances of shared humanity.
A laugh at a stupid movie. A moment of silence that isn't filled with rage. The simple act of sitting in the same room without it feeling like warfare.
I should leave. Should go back to my room. Should maintain the hostility, the distance, the clear reminder that this is not okay and will never be okay.
But I don't. I sit there, on my end of the couch, and watch the rest of the movie.
When the credits roll, Bellamy doesn't try to start a conversation. Doesn't ask if I want to watch something else. Just picks up the remote and turns off the TV, leaving us in relative darkness, only the kitchen light still on.
"Goodnight, Sophie," he says quietly, standing.
I don't respond, just watch as he heads to his room and closes the door. Then I sit there in the quiet, alone, trying to figure out what just happened.
Trying to understand why I feel guilty—not for being here, not for being kidnapped, but for laughing. For that one moment of genuine, unguarded human connection with the man who stole my life.
Trying to reconcile the fact that I hate him, I hate what he's done, I hate being here—and yet for just a moment, watching that absurd movie, I forgot all of that.
I forgot to be angry, and that realization makes me feel like I'm betraying Adrian. Betraying Amelia. Betraying myself.
But more than that, it scares me.
Because if I can forget for a moment, I can forget for an hour. And if I can forget for an hour, I can forget for a day. And eventually, the forgetting becomes the norm and the remembering becomes the exception.
Eventually, this becomes my life instead of my captivity. Eventually, I stop fighting. I won't let that happen. I can't let that happen.
But as I sit in the dark apartment, the echo of my own laugh still ringing in my ears, I'm terrified that it's already starting.
One small crack in my armor. One moment of humanity with my captor. One laugh I can't take back.
And I don't know how to protect myself from what comes next.