Thread Magazine Spring/Summer 2023

Cornell University is located on the traditional homelands of the Gaygōhó:no’ (the Cayuga Nation).

The Gayogōhó:no’ are members of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, an alliance of six sovereign Nations with a historic and contemporary presence on this land. The Confederacy precedes the establishment of Cornell University, New York State, and the United States of America. We acknowledge the painful history of Gayogohó:no’ dispossession, and honor the ongoing connection of Gayogohó:no’ people, past and present, to these lands and waters.

Thread is an independent student publication funded by SAFC. Thread is the largest and premiere fashion, art, and culture magazine at Cornell.

Published once per semester, Thread showcases the talents of Cornellians from all disciplines, working with other campus groups and external organizations. Thread commits overall to being an organization that:

Represents a broad diversity of Cornell’s student body in both membership, leadership, and modeling.

Embeds the stories, narratives, and perspectives of all Cornell students within our themes and photoshoots

Broadens the reach of membership & model recruitment

Fosters a welcoming and inviting community where all members feel empowered to lead and engage in content creation at all levels.

Web https://threadmagazine.org Email thethreadmagazine@gmail.com Instagram @threadmag

The Ho

use

foreword

The concept of “Chosen Families” has been historically affiliated with queer communities and was first coined by anthropologist Kath Weston in her 1991 book “Families We Choose: Lesbians, Gays, Kinship.” However, it is an idea that remains pertinent across all identities, and one that has been a guiding pillar in my life story.

At risk of sounding melodramatic, for a long time I misunderstood by place in the world as a perpetual migrant, cursed to be rootless, both misunderstood by my parents as well as my American peers. It is that classic second gen immigrant sob story: born in Asia, split between two cultures, all that stuff. But really, I thought my upbringing meant that I would forever lack that sense of belonging I had always wanted, as well as substance to my personhood, because what good am I if I can’t even provide a solid answer as to where I am from?

What lay at the resolution of my growing pains was a realization that home is rarely signified by bloodlines of built space. Rather, home is a malleable thing that reflects our selves. I have always known this, but it was truly easier to say than to internalize. My idea of home has drastically altered as I have grown out of my teenage angst and worked to heal my relationships with my loved ones as well as myself. This can still be a struggle sometimes, especially as I continue to age, move, and refamiliarize myself with new surroundings. I have never been good with change. But I am grateful to have found pockets of familiarity even in the most daunting places.

This is only my side of it. In creating this issue, I demanded that each contribution come from the heart, as a genuine offering of vulnerability regarding family. It is perhaps the touchiest subject of them all, revealing the reasons behind one’s behavior, while also cultivating an understanding of the humanity within a person. The House is a visualization of all aspects of home life distinguished through rooms, each one representing a different theme, such as complicated family dynamics, feelings of nostalgia, as well as the very objects one can find decorating the walls of a stairway. I hope that as you dive into each page, you are reminded of where you came from, and the things that have made you.

Best,

Audrey Creative Director

Letter from the Editor

This semester has been full of firsts – first-time E-board members, first-time shoot directors, first-time events, brand collaborations, and recruitment initiatives, and of course, me, a first-time Editor-in-Chief.

Between inducting our majority–freshman E-board and navigating my first time in such a large leadership position, this semester has been a learning curve for us all. I could not have asked for a better group to learn and grow alongside.

For reasons quite unbeknownst to me, Thread took a chance on me. In the Spring of 2022, my little freshman G-body editorial member self was promoted to Co-Creative Director alongside Haley Qin. The trajectory of my personal and professional growth as a creative has been forever changed since.

Nothing could ever compare to the magic of Thread my freshman year. When some of E-board first visited my introductory fashion class to recruit new members, I was immediately captivated by the magazine’s stunning visuals, creative complexity, and confident leaders. Never did I imagine that just one year later it would be me visiting that same class and speaking with the same passion and confidence that had inspired me to join.

In my first semester on Thread, I was a part of two shoots {shoutout Intrusion I and II}. I sat on the outskirts of the crowd, quietly contributing to styling and posing, attempting to find my place within this huge, intimidating club. Attending my first photoshoot was a new kind of magic. I got to witness so many unique individuals come together to execute a collective vision for no reason other than a love for creation. When, a month later, a polished magazine landed in my hands, I was amazed and mystified at how a million abstract ideas and countless photographs could possibly be curated into something this professional and beautiful.

My second semester on Thread as Co-Creative Director had a new and more special kind of magic to it. I experienced a feeling of almost childlike wonder, as a team of brilliant people helped support my creative vision and bring my wildest dreams to fruition.

Now, as I sit here in Sibley Hall for the second night in a row, working until 4 am on layouts, and still miraculously attending my 9 am classes the following day, it can sometimes seem like that magic is gone. But in reality, it has just taken on a new form. The magazine is no longer a nebulous entity, taking form seemingly overnight in the hands of upperclassmen who I perceive as much cooler and more creative than I could ever be; it is the very real, tangible result of over a hundred people dedicating hundreds of hours of their time for the sake of art.

This semester, our incredible Creative Director, Audrey Yin, has done such a beautiful job of articulating the concept of chosen family with such poeticism and grit. I can truly and sincerely say that the Thread community is one of my chosen families. I am full of so much love and admiration for every single one of you on Thread. Regardless of whether we spoke once in passing or worked together every single day, we are all brought together through a singular connection: our art.

I am honored to work alongside such brilliant, creative minds and am so grateful for the opportunity to share our collective vision with the world. Together, we have created something truly noteworthy that I will always cherish.

xoxo, Raquel Coren Editor-in-Chief

Editor in Chief

Raquel Coren

Managing Editor

Misha Caternor

Senior Print Director

Lee Fitzgerald

Senior Communications Director

Jasmine Chang

Creative Director

Audrey Yin

Art Directors

Catherine Vu

Alexandria Fennell

Asuka Kurebayashi

Beauty Directors

Valerie Chang

Taylor Brown

Editorial Directors

Parker Piccolo Hill

Sanjana Tarigopula

Photography Director

Kyra Husen

Fashion Directors

Ellie Altman-Sagan

Rani Sheth

Collaborations Director

Lexi Siegel

Community Director

Meredith Hu

Social Media Design Directors

Alexandria Fennell

Asuka Kurebayashi

Social Media Strategy Director

Ignacio Estrada

Digital Director

Ignacio Estrada

Film Director

Seth Stephenson

Events Director

Emma Dow

Casting Director

Eliot Lee

Sales Director

Krisha Desai

Staff

Kathleen Anderson

Adriana Arce

Roxana Behdad

Aladar Bell

Rahanna Bisseret Martinez

Lilly Bjerke

Oscar Callamari-Abrams

Viann Chan

Alan Chau

Nicole Cheung

Aaron Puentes

Alina Chisti

Sam Chung

Aleks Cornforth

Matthew Correa

Arina Danilina

Chris Desir

Carolyn Dunn

Tioluwani Fabunmi

Jackson Feldman

Irene Feng

Pia Glaysher

Saskia Gonzalez

Caroline Graves

DJ Green

Mimi Gurrola

Chloe Han

Lara Harvey

Macarena Hesse

Kayla Hsu

Michelle Hui

Simone Jacobs

Claire Jacobson

Armita Jamshidi

Ananthi Jayasundera

Lauren Jun

Pantara Kambhato

Yewon Kee

Charlotte Keil

Jas Khan

Andy Kim

Allison Kwon

Melissa LaFountain

Anabelle Lau

Alyssa Lee

Brandon Leung

Jenny Li

Pat Li

Samantha Li

Myna Lim

Anna Loy

Jesus Mayen

Maura Mayhew

Ginger McCoy

Natalie Meredith

Alexa Miller

Asara Milton

Isabel Mina

Francesca Mirthil

Roxana Mora

Marina Morgan

Grace Myers

Ryan O’Donnell

Malachy O’Hare

Funmi Olukanmi

Sofi Padavan

Ria Panchal

Jessica Park

Lia Ponciano Diaz

Adishri Pradhan

Arefa Rahman

Bella Raneri

Sofia Restrepo

Jake Rosen

Sasha Ryder

Isaac Saadi

Kaelyn Sandifer

Olivia Santos Huertas

Hana Schultz

Sophie Shadid

Celena Shen

Jasmine Si

Emma Smolar

Edom Solomon

Marina Tadrous

Neen Tangcharoenmonkong

Nicole Tian

Alexis Tosounian

Jolene Tsang

Camila Urteaga

Daniel Valderrama

Ella VanCora

Christopher Walker

Alex Watson

Asya Wise

Ashley Wojcik

Gabriel Wolf-Velarde

Anika Xia

Peter Yacoub

Erin Yoon

Grace Zahm

Ava Zhang

TABLE OF

Creative: Emma Smolar

Photography: Daniel Valderrama

Set Design & Props: Brandon Leung, Nicole Tian

CONTENTS

Directors: Emma Dow and Lexi Siegel

Models: Mia Bachrack, Thami Hamzane, Aarushi Machavarapu, Mike Solazzo, Thomas Vignos, Kyra Watts

Art: Anna Loy

Creative: Tioluwani Fabunmi, Claire Jacobson, Jake Rosen

Editorial: Grace Myers, Kaelyn Sandifer

Fashion: Allison Kwon, Sofi Padavan

Photography: Isabel Mina, Pia Glaysher

Family Portraits

was a floating druggie. Bonnie had heard Riley’s songs blast through her headphones; it sounded far too violent for her taste and she couldn’t understand how a person could listen to such music for fun.

Three months into their cohabitation, Bonnie returned to a strangely quiet dorm. She opened the door and found Riley sitting at her desk without her usual studded defenses; she looked frail. She came around and saw that Riley was holding a postcard of Bonnie’s family in St. Simons Island, and a ten-year-old Bonnie was beaming up at the pair.

“Homesick,” was the only word Riley offered.

Bonnie smiled and explained how her family used to take a vacation there every summer. Riley smiled: her family had too. She asked Bonnie if she’d ever been to the Magnolia Diner, and the pair discovered they shared a favorite place on the island. Something clicked in Bonnie’s mind. She might’ve found a single thread to stitch the pair together. She scanned the bookshelf over her bed and pulled out a scrapbook while beckoning Riley to join her.

They flipped through old photos of Bonnie’s younger years spent on the island until they stumbled across one taken inside Magnolia Diner. Their eyes were drawn to a familiar head of jet-black hair. Riley’s eyes widened into saucers. There she was in the background, a nine-year-old Riley two tables behind Bonnie’s family. The pair laughed and smiled and shared stories about their families until they both became homesick, flooded by a synchronous wave of longing. At the same moment, Jules came in with a dazed smile that melted as she saw the pair moping on Bonnie’s bed.

Bonnie eyed Jules, she had always felt the sunny girl who never had a glum day must’ve been wiser than them. “How do you stop missing your family? How do you not miss home?”

Jules smiled and shuffled into a spot on the crowded mattress. “You don’t, but you can make a home wherever you go. It doesn’t suck as much that way.”

“Have you made one?” Riley asked. Jules shook her head.

At that moment, Bonnie decided to make that room into their home away from home no matter what. If she and Riley loved the same diner, surely they must share other loves.

After that day, the three became closer. A few weeks later, Jules and her hippie friends took Bonnie and Riley out for their first real night drinking, ending up in a smoky room with Jules teaching them how to behave. Another day, Riley came home with two leather jackets she found in a thrift store and declared they were for Bonnie and Jules, but she said they weren’t done yet. So, all three girls stayed up late into the night decorating the jackets with pins, although Bonnie insisted on embroidering hers (helping Riley discover she liked embroidery, too). Bonnie helped the other girls organize their notes to get ready for their exams, becoming a minor celebrity in the other girls’ friend groups in the process.

When it came time to choose housing for their sophomore year, all three made sure they’d be together again. Although, this time they asked for separate rooms in the same suite. As much as she loved them now, Bonnie still couldn’t handle all the clothes the other girls left on the floor.

-Kaelyn Sandifer

The Curse of Orpheus

Void in my thoughts and feelings, drained of a Soul, I walk unconsciously in regret. Silent and desperate pleas for a new say. The unforgiving summer air begets

A melancholy I can almost bite.

I walk through a crowd noticing every Push, every touch, every minor delight. This cold blanketing my mind is deathly. The left of my shoulder thaws and I turn To find the face of my love smiling back. Something unnoticed and needlessly yearned: A support system sans rewards or praise. And unlike mythology, you leave ne’er. You are my Eurydice, always there.

- Grace Myers

Directors: Ellie Altman-Sagan and Asuka Kurebayashi

Models: Cleah Dyer, Ty Moxie, Sumaya Hardi, Lauren Salliotte, Luca Drago

Art: Alexa Miller

Creative: Natalie Meredith, Olivia Santos Huertas

Editorial: Roxana Behdad

Fashion: Armita Jamshidi, Ananthi Jayasundera, Alexis Tosounian

Photography: Pia Glaysher, Caroline Graves, Marina Morgan

Set Design & Props: Jackson Feldman, Bella Raneri

by Roxy Behdad

The floors creaked as she walked, a constant reminder that the house had a presence, a life of its own. She instantly knew that creak would come to be her favorite sound.

As her hands grazed across the walls, she found her fingers drawn to multicolored ink coloring the door frame. In those colorful marks she discerned numbers, labels of various heights and ages.

The shouts of rowdy children echoing the hallways. Rays of crisp summer sun penetrating through the room. Familial bliss. A blond-haired boy of just eight years old jumps up and down, begging to have himself measured. This impression of growth may just be a signal of impending maturity, but he doesn’t mind. As his mother swiftly brushes down his disheveled hair, she marks a new line with bright blue ink. 4’5.” 1970. Miles.

She soon took notice of the TV, admirable in its shamelessly ordinary presence. She instantly knew that in the presence of the television, she would find tranquility.

It had not yet been plugged in. In this blinding confrontation with Wthe black display, she was forced to reckon with the reflection of her own appearance. In the outline of her sculpted face she gleaned a caged inner self, patiently awaiting its release.

The baby’s screams harshly contrast the light whistles of the creatures just outside the window. The sun begins to fall, effortlessly and beautifully. Exhaustion amidst serenity. The mother begins to believe that her child’s room is an abyss—once she enters, she is never quite able to leave. She calls for her husband to switch places with her—no response. Suddenly, a wave of autonomy rushes over the woman. Within seconds she finds herself glued to the carpet in front of the TV. She doesn’t even turn it on, she just sobs: quietly, passionately, cathartically.

The cushions lining the couch begged to be sat upon, alluring in their homely comfort. She instantly knew that couch would be the origin of new beginnings.

Her clothes were filthy from the move, but she didn’t care. She sat herself on the pristine piece of furniture. After a moment, she lifted herself from the couch, and as she did so, she spotted a quarter coyly hiding under the cushion.

The repeated ticking of the clock permeates from all corners of the room. The moon is steadfast, a fixture draping from the sky. Tension builds. She thought ten minutes was an eternity, she realizes it was a mere instant. Her husband is now two hours late for family dinner. She leaves the kitchen and plants herself on the couch, yearning to escape the smell of lasagna and ignorant hope. She decides to play a game. She reaches for a rusty quarter deep in her pocket, deciding to let fate determine whether this is her breaking point—whether she should leave. She flips the coin: tails.

The living room stands resolute in the house, an emblem of the chaotic dynamism of life. She instantly knew that it would come to be her favorite room.

THE STAIRWAY I'M IN UR FUCKING WALLS

Directors: Parker Piccolo Hill and Sanjana Tarigopula

Models: Claire Chung, Elsie Muhirwa, Rachel Shepherd

Beauty: Pantara Kambhato, Hana Schultz

Creative: Adriana Arce

Fashion: Saskia Gonzalez, Edom Solomon

Photography: Oscar Callamari-Abrams, Neen

Tangcharoenmonkong

Set Design & Props: Sasha Ryder

Directors: Alexandria Fennell and Catherine Vu

Models: Gregory Sharma, Carlin Dypko, Riley Grills, Prakriti Khanal

Art: Lia Ponciano Diaz

Beauty: Alina Chisti, Jas Khan

Creative: Jenny Li

Photo: Carolyn Dunn, Camila Urtega

Styling: Maura Mayhew, Ryan O’Donnell

Sleep paralysis is a realm of twilight, where the veil between the living and the dead is thin and tenuous. It is a place where the mind is ensnared and the body is held captive, trapped in a state of perpetual torment. Like a prisoner in a cell, the victim is bound and unable to move, helpless against the onslaught of the demons that assail them.

The demons that haunt this realm are myriad, a multitude of female figures that are not quite human, twisted and distorted in form and feature. They are otherworldly beings, their beauty and grace a mask for their true nature. Their smiles are like the glint of knives, their laughter like the sound of shattered glass.

The man who is plagued by sleep paralysis finds no reprieve from his torment. He is consumed by his own fear, lost in a world of perpetual darkness and dread. His waking moments are as terrifying as those in which he is trapped in his bed, unable to move or speak. Everywhere he turns, he sees the demons, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.

He is like a ship adrift on a stormy sea, buffeted by the waves and at the mercy of the tempest. His mind is a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, his soul torn asunder by the demons that assail him. He is a prisoner of his own fear, held captive in a world that is not his own.

And so he suffers, day and night, trapped in the grip of a nightmare from which there is no escape. He longs for release, for the sweet release of death, but it is denied him. He is condemned to wander in this realm of twilight, forever haunted by the demons of the night.

The Mother

Directors: Audrey Yin and Krisha Desai

Models: Steven An, Flora Ding, Rebecca Lee

Art: Ria Panchal

Beauty: Lara Harvey, Adishri Pradhan

Creative: DJ Green, Kayla Hsu, Myna Lim

Photography: Anabelle Lau, Pat Li

Props & Set Design: Lilly Bjerke

Styling: Aleks Cornforth, Marina Tadrous, Alex Watson

Sweet Osmanthus

Do you remember me?

The age 13 didn’t settle well on my face. It bury itself into my skin Like tiny crescent moons. Pick pick pick

You watched me once, As I waxed and waned from forehead to chin. You said I pressed hard, like I wanted my fingers and cheeks to become one. Pick pick pick

I have never seen you softer than now, Softer than the woman without the knowing, Before she built a home in a stranger. The ones in love are lucky. Pick pick pick

I’ll press hard, though you reject me. But we’ll settle into tiny crescent moons And I’ll know you, And we’ll become one, like we’ve always been. Pick pick pick

The Garden

Directors: Taylor Brown and Valerie Chang

Models: Nick Huang, Petros Georgiou, Isabel Padilla Bonelli, Aditi Hukerikar

Art: Ginger McCoy

Beauty: Pantara Kambhato

Creative: Nicole Cheung, Lauren Jun

Editorial: Sofia Restrepo

Photography: Irene Feng, Andy Kim, Sophie Shadid

Styling & Set Design: Jasmine Si, Nicole Tian, Celena Shen

OMG I’M A

Director: Eliot Lee

Models: Julie Chung, Leanna Skeete, Jenna Lea, Isabella Fang, Aiton Avgar, Peter Raddio, Aaliyah Taylor

Art: Samantha Li

Creative: Yewon Kee, Gabriel Wolf-Velarde

Editorial: Christopher Walker, Grace Zahm

Fashion: Alan Chau, Charlotte Keil, Asara Milton

Photography: Carolyn Dunn, Marina Morgan

Set Design & Props: Simone Jacobs, Jolene Tsang

Cringe Sells: Irony and the Commodification of Our Attention

Grace Zahm

It’s 2016. You’re sitting at your computer after school, watching the latest idubbbz Content Cop. You have a Musically cringe compilation queued up, and you’re scrolling Reddit upvoting only the dankest Shrek memes. For much of your childhood, you remember having some unbridled animosity towards Justin Bieber and the boys from One Direction (even though you secretly thought their music was alright). Looking back now, you realize: did you ever enjoy something authentically? I mean, all you ever consumed was media that seemed to be against something else, never for anything. Did you ever actually contribute, rather than reduce? But that’s what was cool; and what’s funnier than ridicule? Everyone loves a good cringe— at the expense of others, of course.

Ironic humor, in the form of cringe, has thrived on the internet since its genesis. To the average consumer, irony, and cynicism seem much more emotionally palatable than authenticity and earnesty, as humanity struggles with genuine expression. When media depicts these feelings, a strong, almost uncomfortable reaction is invoked in the viewer as they connect deeply with the subject material. On the other hand, ironic humor is derived from detaching oneself from the characters and emotions of a situation and finding comedy in this detachment. Instead of believing in sincerity, depth, earnestness, and truth, the Ironist cuts these connections and separates the content from the viewer. This creates the postmodern ‘cool’ effect we see in media that capitalizes off of cringe. It’s why we feel cool watching it. “I’m watching it in an ironic way, so I am distinctly separate and different from it.”

As early as the nineties, per the research of popular culture studies writer Michial Farmer, television writers recognized this human struggle for authenticity, and instead of working through it, they met it where it stood. To turn larger profits, networks needed watch times to be longer for advertisers. For viewers to watch for longer, content needed to be dry and comfortable, yet still entertaining. Thus, shows built entirely off of dry irony, the likes of Seinfeld and Arrested Development, flourished on networks. Irony and ironic media were born out of a need for capital, and the commodification of apathy toward human emotion. Our attention is the commodity, and for us to give up as much of it as possible, we need to feel comfortable. We like to stay in our little unfeeling box, numb yet just entertained enough to stay.

We confuse enjoying watching “cool” media with actually enjoying something; we deprive ourselves of authenticity, of any emotion that is actually our own.

In the digital age, we are now surrounded by irony, endlessly chasing another hit of cringe. We can bully kids on Roblox or we can skyrocket random people to something more akin to infamy than fame. We laud ordinary people as unknowing court jesters to an audience of millions for the sake of a quick laugh and discard them just as quickly (think personalities like Trisha Paytas, lovelypeaches, worldoftshirts, etc). Is there more we could get from life and from ourselves if we break out of this comfort zone imposed on us by our attention being treated as a product? What if we were able to grow comfortable with authenticity; with pushing our emotional boundaries? What if I’m excited about the Five Nights at Freddy’s movie? What if I like Ed Sheeran?* If we finally let ourselves explore outside of this culture of cynical irony that wasn’t even made with human enjoyment in mind, we might be able to know what it’s like to find joy in something, instead of just enjoying feeling cool or funny. So listen to 100 gecs, sing along to the riff-off in Pitch Perfect, join that club that you’ve been too afraid to. Just do whatever makes you happy, not whatever you think will make others laugh.

*I don’t like Ed Sheeran.

Farmer, Michial. “‘Cloaked In, Like, Fifteen Layers of Irony’: The Metamodernist Sensibility of ‘Parks and Recreation.’” Studies in Popular Culture, vol. 37, no. 2, 2015, pp. 103–20. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/43940360. Accessed 14 Apr. 2023.

UNDER THE HOUSE

Directors: Ignacio Estrada and Kyra Husen

Models: Michelle Zsong, WIlliam Remoundos, Manoc Joa-Griffith

Art: Tiffany Gao, Mimi Gurrola

Beauty: Roxana Mora

Creative: Viann Chan, Alyssa Lee

Editorial: Melissa LaFountain

Fashion: Aladar Bell, Michelle Hui

Photography: Chris Desir, Arina Danilina, Caroline Graves

Set Design & Props: Jesus Mayen

A Hell for the Living by Melissa Lafountain

Most people will tell you that Hell is where the bad people go when the sun finally sets on their lives. That it is reserved for the dead, a punishment only known to those who have succumbed to some perilous fate. But nobody speaks of the Hell that exists for the living. It blazes for those who sin so recklessly that punishment loses its patience for death. And thus, here is where I find myself.

I would love to claim that I’ve been drenched in good luck. Yes, I’ve found love– and more than once, I might add. My fiance is ethereal, kind, and strong. She sees the best in everyone, myself included. We talk of a brilliant future, with children and grandchildren, spiral staircases and picket fences, millions of dollars, and an eternity of happiness. And I think she believes in it, too. She looks at me and sees a lifetime of good fortune and a place to call home. Up to this point, I have tried my hardest to keep it that way.

But when she’s gone, I let the mask slip. I wait until I hear the familiar groan of our garage door closing, and I am myself, in my truest form. I check my reflection, scanning for any imperfections before I venture to the basement. It is here where I finally get to see who I call home and I need to look my best. I trot down the stairs, excitement building with each step. By the time I reach the bottom, I’m almost giddy. I nab the tape roll from my toolbox and head to my little secret. I push the carpet aside to reveal the small door in the wood floor and peel it open with my fingertips. Even from here, I can hear faint snores and stirring. I tiptoe down the ladder at the door opening, careful not to let a rung creak. Can’t wake them, now can I?

And at long last, I see her. Eyes shut, lips parted just enough to let out slow, peaceful breaths. I stand in the corner for a moment, admiring her in this state. She is so beautiful, but even more so when she’s awake.

I pull off a piece of tape as quietly as I can and start to creep toward the body of the woman I love. I swiftly press the tape to her mouth, then nudge her out of sleep. When her eyes flick open, I greet her with a toothy smile. She takes a deep breath, maybe to scream, but to no avail. There’s a look of panic in her mesmerizing, stone-gray eyes. I sigh.

“Hasn’t it been long enough that you aren’t afraid of me anymore?” I ask, hurt in my voice. She shakes her head ferociously, and I feel the flames rolling in. I reach for her, then think better of it.

“You know why I did this, right?” I ask. She rolls her eyes. I ignore her, continuing.

“I did this for us. You know I couldn’t get out of my engagement. But I needed you. And I know you needed me. We need each other, and this is the only way we could keep our love alive.”

I explain it like it is the most obvious thing in the world. Because to me, it is. I know it’s wrong, of course. Nobody gets rewarded for stealing a person. But I feel like I’m out of options. I don’t like myself for what I have done, but I know that I would hate myself without her. I just wish she felt the same way.

“Anyway…” I start. “I just wanted to come down to see you. The fiance’s out and nobody is around to hear any commotion down here…so I suppose I could remove the tape from your mouth if you’d like?”

But even before I finish my question, I know the answer I have to choose. She’s already started yelling through the tape, and she’ll undoubtedly be loud enough to alert the neighbors without it on. It’s a risk I can’t take, so I decide against it. I tell her I’ve changed my mind and she continues to yell.

It is too painful to stay in there and watch her be angry with me. I’ve been reminded enough of my punishment for what I had done, and I’m ready to don my mask again. I slowly turn from the woman I love, trying to block out her screams, and step out of the Hell I’ve found myself in. But as I make my way up the ladder and her yells start to fade, the burning only magnifies.

There is no pain quite like hurting those you love. I hate to see her this way. But I know that not seeing her at all would be far worse. So I deal with this ache in my chest and the sin that I’ve committed. I try to see myself as my fiance does, as a home. Not only for her but for my lover in the basement. I reassure myself that I am not a monster, but a man who keeps what he loves close.

When my fiance returns, the mask has been firmly reglued to my face. I am again playing the role of dutiful beau, protector, and key to her beautiful future.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. She just needs to stay out of the basement.