He didn't reply to her text.
Frida stared at her phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dim light of her apartment. Her message sat there, unread. She had agonized over sending it, wondering if it was too direct, too eager. But she sent it anyway. And now, silence.
The lack of a response left her restless, her mind twisting in frustration and anticipation. Her thoughts were like a storm, the tension building as if the air around her were charged with static electricity. She felt ridiculous for even caring. Why did it matter so much?
She shoved her phone aside with a sigh, dragging her attention back to the day ahead. It was the last week of school, and the university had decided to cap off the semester with a tour to Dubai. For most students, it was an exciting prospect, a reward for surviving months of relentless lectures, late-night study sessions, and grueling exams.
Frida, however, wasn't thrilled.
In the sunlit classrooms of the medical building, she sat at her desk, her stethoscope slung casually around her neck. Around her, students buzzed with excitement, their voices rising and falling in animated conversations about the upcoming trip.
Leah plopped into the seat next to her, practically bouncing with energy. "Frida! Can you believe it? Dubai! A whole week in luxury!"
Frida rolled her eyes, flipping through her notes with feigned interest. "I don't see the point. We're medical students, Leah. Shouldn't we be focused on, I don't know, medicine?"
"Oh, stop being such a buzzkill," Leah teased, nudging her arm. "You can't spend your whole life in textbooks and scrubs. This is our chance to relax before residency crushes us completely."
"Relax?" Frida shot her a skeptical look. "Getting dragged to a tourist trap with a bunch of overexcited students doesn't sound relaxing to me."
Leah ignored her protests, launching into a detailed description of all the things she planned to do in Dubai—shopping, sightseeing, desert safaris. Frida tried to tune her out, her mind wandering back to her unanswered text.
That evening, Frida returned to her apartment. The day's light was fading, casting long shadows across her small, meticulously organized space. She slumped onto her couch, the muted glow of the TV her only company.
She flipped through channels aimlessly until a romantic movie caught her attention. On the screen, a couple leaned in close, their eyes locked. The woman playfully placed a candy in her mouth and passed it to the man with a kiss, their laughter filling the room.
Frida bit her lip, her chest tightening with an unspoken longing. Her fingers brushed the edge of her phone. Still no reply.
Suddenly, the TV screen flickered, the image of the couple vanishing. The screen turned a deep, ominous red, and white text appeared: Rule Number One: Don't Ask Questions. Rule Number Two: Obey.
Frida froze, her pulse quickening. The air in the room seemed to shift, growing heavier, more charged. She could almost feel it crackling against her skin.
"If you break any of the rules, there will be punishments," the screen flashed again.
Her heart thundered in her chest. Punishments? What kind of punishments? Her mind raced, her thoughts spiraling.
Then another message appeared: Are you ready?
Her breathing grew shallow. She should have turned the TV off, walked away, done anything but stay frozen in place. Instead, she whispered, "Yes."