Three years of suffering cured me of love and attachment. I became the person he wanted, but he had gone mad... Three years was neither too long nor too short. But it was enough time for me to let go of him.
When the head doctor called me in, he looked at me with a mix of pity and disdain. "Do you still love Lucas?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt.
I shook my head, feeling nothing but a hollow emptiness where my love for him once burned brightly.
For the umpteenth time, he warned me, "Remember, Lucas is not a man you can love."
Again, I nodded mechanically, my heart was no longer fluttering at the sound of his name.
He patted my shoulder. "Go on, you can go home now."
I thanked him and limped towards the door of the mental hospital. The iron gates loomed before me, a symbol of my confinement and suffering.
As I stepped out, I saw Lucas standing by a Bentley, his presence as commanding as ever.
In the sunlight, he was tall and handsome, more mature and dazzling than three years ago. He looked at me with gentle eyes, "You’re out."
I stared at him blankly, as if he were a stranger. The memories of my torment flooded back and I felt a pang of bitterness.