The Mating Run by Leeka

Obsession

I once had this plant, you know? It was this tiny thing, nestled in a little pot on my windowsill. I thought I was doing it a favor by showering it with water every single day. Like, who wouldn’t want a daily dose of hydration, right? Little did I know, I was drowning the poor thing in my overzealous attempt to be a stellar plant parent.

Every morning, without fail, I’d grab that watering can and unleash a torrent of liquid affection upon my leafy companion. I thought I was being the best plant mom ever. I mean, what plant doesn’t want to be surrounded by water? It’s like their thing, isn’t it?

But you know what happened? Despite my unwavering dedication, that little. green buddy of mine started looking… well, not so lively. Its leaves began to droop, and the vibrant green hue turned into a sad shade of brown. It was like a slow–motion botanical disaster right there on my windowsill.

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One day, as I gazed at the wilted state of my once–thriving friend, it hit me like a ton of bricks maybe, just maybe, I’d been a tad too enthusiastic with the watering routine. You’d think I’d learn from the first few signs of distress, but nope. I kept pouring on the H2O, convinced it was the elixir of life for my little leafy buddy.

It’s funny, you know? How we sometimes think we’re doing the right thing, pouring all our efforts into something, only to realize we might be suffocating it instead. I guess I had this grand vision of my plant thriving under my care, standing tall and proud. Instead, it was gasping for air in soil that had become a watery bog.

Now, I can almost hear you thinking, “Why didn’t you just Google it?” And yeah, you’re right. I could have, but there’s this stubborn streak in me that insists I know what’s best. Google? Pfft. Who needs it when you’ve got sheer determination to drown out common sense?

So, there I was, facing the harsh reality that my plant–parenting skills were, well, lacking. But you know what’s even more comical? In my quest to be the best plant parent ever, I ended up being the reason for its demise. Irony, right?

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Obsession

I remember standing there, pot in hand, soil soaked beyond recognition, and leaves that looked more like they belonged in a compost heap than on a thriving plant. It was a moment of reflection, a botanical reckoning, if you will. I had to

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accept it my once–green companion was now a casualty of my overenthusiastic approach to nurturing.

In the silence of that plant funeral, a realization dawned on me.

Maybe, just maybe, less is more.

Fast forward to the present, and here I am, navigating the curious waters of Ettie’s intentions. It’s like she’s armed with a watering can of goodwill, pouring it over me with the conviction that she knows what’s best. The irony isn’t lost on me from the over–nurturing plant parent to being on the receiving end of Ettie’s overbearing protectiveness.

Ettie, in her own way, thinks she’s doing what’s good for me. Just like I believed drowning my plant in daily showers of affection was the key to botanical bliss. The intentions are golden, right? But the execution, oh boy, that’s where things get a bit tangled.

Ettie’s become a sort of guardian, a protector with an unyielding belief that her ways are the path to salvation. It’s oddly familiar – the misguided sense of knowing what’s best for someone else. In her eyes, she’s watering my metaphorical leaves, ensuring I thrive under her watchful gaze.

The thing is, just like my poor plant, I’m feeling a bit suffocated. Ettie’s care, while well–intentioned, has this weight to it. It’s as if every gesture is an attempt to shield me from the perils of the world, to cocoon me in safety. And while safety is nice, there’s a thin line between protection and suffocation.

We’ve had our moments, Ettie and I. Conversations where I try to express that her version of protection feels more like confinement. She doesn’t see it that way, of course. To her, the world is a perilous jungle, and she’s the fierce hunter ready to fend off any threat.

I’ve tried to make her understand that sometimes, I need space. Like my poor plant needed room to breathe between watering sessions, I need moments where I

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Obsession

monitored. It’s a tricky conversation, though, because it’s hard to articulate the need for

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one hand, I appreciate the concern, the genuine desire to shield me from harm. On the other, I find myself yearning for the freedom

Ettie’s eyes. It’s like she can’t fathom why I’d want anything other than her vigilant protection. And there’s the rub – the gap between what she thinks is best for me. and

like a lamb caught in the den of a wolf. Elijah’s

a harsh reminder of the madness that unfolded not too long ago. And as Ettie casually walks around, like nothing is wrong, I’m left here, grappling with a whirlwind

thick with tension, and every creak of the wooden walls sends shivers down my spine. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m at the mercy of forces beyond my control, and it’s suffocating. Ettie moves with an eerie calmness, as if the brutal act of moments ago was just a blip in

gaze from the bloodstains to Ettie, who’s now rummaging through a bag with a casual demeanor. It’s

go? The forest outside is a labyrinth of dangers, and

her gaze – a recognition, a shared secret, or perhaps just a brief acknowledgment of the chaos that binds us together. My heart races,

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Obsession

what that glance

see me as an accomplice, a witness, or

approaches, a nonchalant smile on

“Everything okay?”

weather. I manage a nod, my voice caught In my throat. Her hand reaches out,

her chores, I can’t help but wonder – am I truly safe here? Is this hut a sanctuary, shielding me from the horrors lurking outside, or

in the air, a haunting symphony that plays on repeat in

the creaking of the wooden floorboards, anything to distract me from the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. Yet, with each passing moment, the feeling intensifies, like a storm gathering strength on the

at me again, this time with a hint of

sure you’re

Her words pierce through the fog of my thoughts,

smile.

processing

attempt

plece of paper that might hold the key to my escape. Ettle is humming a tune, completely absorbed in

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Obsession”

the hut.

races as I try to unfold the

each cautious move, whispering a tale of my clandestine plans. I steal a glance towards Ettie, making sure

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Her attention seems fixed on something in the corner, oblivious to

be a labyrinth of possibilities. I trace the paths with my eyes, searching for the route that

the map, and I squint at the names of places I’ve never been. A forest of uncertainty lies beyond those marked boundaries, but