Wyndham Psychiatric Centre was luxurious but cold. The place felt more like a prison wrapped in silk than a hospital. Aireen, a 22-year-old final-year medical student, stepped into her psychiatric rotation with nervous resolve.
“You’ve been assigned to Zayn Hyde,” said Dr. Freid, handing her a thin file. “Borderline personality. High-profile. Careful, Aireen. He’s… complicated.”
The nurses avoided his wing. Rumors swirled — about his violent past, about things better left unsaid.
She opened the file but paused. Something in her gut whispered: Don’t look. Observe first.
---
Zayn sat in the sunroom, alone, surrounded by half-finished origami flowers. Dressed in grey, he looked oddly elegant. Calm. But his eyes — they were not calm.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he said, the moment she stepped in.
Aireen blinked. “Should I be?”
He smiled. “That depends. Are you like the rest? Or do you see what others won’t?”
From that moment, Zayn clung to her like shadow to flame. He spoke gently, like a poet—but every word wrapped itself around her thoughts. He watched her too closely, listened too deeply.
---
He noticed her trauma. Her silence. The way her hands trembled when someone raised their voice.
“You’re like a glass rose,” he whispered once. “Beautiful, fragile, but sharp.”
Aireen felt something stir—pity, perhaps. Or something darker.
He made her laugh once, quoting a line from an old book. She found herself lingering in the ward, longer than necessary. She told herself it was duty.
But Zayn fed on attention. If she smiled at another patient, he’d spiral—self-harm, screaming, or silence so deep it pierced bone.
When she ignored his outbursts, flowers appeared in her locker. Notes slipped under her door. One read: “Even thorns crave tenderness.”
---
One night, Aireen stayed behind. Curiosity finally won.
She opened his complete file.
Photos. Police reports. Witness accounts.
A therapist who vanished after claiming to fall in love with him. A nurse hospitalized with acid burns. Another woman found dead. All linked to Zayn.
And the last note, from a discharged psychologist:
“He craves control. If he can’t have your heart, he’ll break your mind.”
Aireen staggered back from the desk, breath frozen. She felt sick. She had let him in.
---
She stopped visiting Zayn. Changed shifts. Avoided his gaze.
But Zayn noticed.
One evening, he stood outside her dorm door, lips bloodied from biting himself, eyes wild.
“Why did you run from me, flower?” he asked gently. “I was blooming for you.”
Aireen tried to close the door. He slammed it open.
“I gave you everything. My truths. My pain.”
“You manipulated me,” she said, trembling.
Zayn’s face fell—then twisted. “You healed me. I won’t let you go.”
---
Aireen bolted into the hall. Zayn followed.
Staff shouted, but he was fast—frantic. A man possessed.
She turned corners blindly, heart pounding. Down dark corridors, through the laundry chute, past locked staff rooms.
“You said you cared!” Zayn screamed behind her.
She reached the basement exit—but it was locked.
He caught up.
They struggled. He pinned her to the wall, breath ragged.
“You don’t get to walk away.”
Aireen whispered, “You never loved me. You just wanted to own me.”
Zayn’s eyes filled with rage—and heartbreak.
“I wanted to belong,” he said, tears streaking his cheeks.
She headbutted him and ran.
---
Security sedated Zayn. He was transferred to a maximum-security psychiatric ward.
Aireen resigned from her rotation. For weeks, she slept with lights on. Therapy helped, but the fear lingered.
She received a warning to stay quiet—Zayn’s family had power.
She never spoke publicly. But the trauma remained.
---
Months later, a parcel arrived at her apartment. No return address.
Inside:
A blood-stained paper flower.
A note in familiar handwriting:
“Even without sunlight, I’ll find you.
Love doesn’t die.
It waits.”
Her fingers trembled.
Outside, the wind howled.
And in the shadows, something watched.
---
THE END
