Mason and I were chilling, watching Netflix when he looked at my tattoo and asked, “Have you ever thought about getting it removed?”

I laughed because I thought he was joking. The constellation on my shoulder was Cassiopeia, my grandmother’s favorite. She was this badass woman who taught herself astronomy in the 1960s when women weren’t supposed to care about science.

“It’s just unprofessional,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

“For your career? I work in graphic design. Half my co-workers have full sleeves.” When I pointed this out, he got this weird, frustrated look and offered to pay for the removal himself. I should have known something was seriously wrong then, but I figured maybe he was just stressed about work or something.

Then came the gym thing the following week. Mason started insisting I work out with him every morning, specifically cardio. “You’d feel so much better if you were more toned,” he kept saying, even though I’m already a size six and perfectly healthy. He’d stand there, watching me on the treadmill with this intense expression like he was trying to reshape me with his mind.

The hair dye was the breaking point. He came home last Tuesday with a box of blonde hair dye, the platinum kind that would completely fry my dark brown hair. “I think you’d look amazing as a blonde,” he said, holding it out like a gift. “More… I don’t know, fresh.” Fresh, like I was expired milk or something. I told him no, obviously.

And that’s when things got weird. “You never try anything new,” he practically shouted. “It’s just ink, Ashley.”

“Mason, you loved this tattoo.”

“Things change. Why are you so stuck in your ways?”

His hands were shaking. “Don’t you want to be someone different? Be someone different.” The way he said it made my skin crawl.

“Are you okay?” I asked because he looked like he might actually cry.

“I’m fine. Just forget it. Keep the stupid tattoo.” His voice cracked on “stupid,” and I swear he had tears in his eyes.

By Friday, I was desperate for answers, which is the only reason I didn’t cancel dinner with his friends. His buddy Theodore had been drinking since happy hour, and he turned to me with this sloppy grin.

“At least this one seems more stable than Rachel,” he slurred, then immediately looked like he’d swallowed a grenade.

“Rachel?” I’d never heard that name before. Mason had told me his last relationship ended years ago—mutual breakup, no big deal.

When Mason came back, his face went white the second he saw everyone’s expressions.

“What were you guys talking about?” His voice was too high, too tight.

“Just work stuff,” I lied, but my mind was racing.

That night, I did something I’m not proud of. While Mason was sleeping, I went through his old tablet, the one he claimed was broken but kept in his closet. It wasn’t broken. It was logged into an Instagram account he said he’d deleted. I found her within minutes. Rachel Reit.

My hands started shaking as I scrolled through the photos. Brown hair like mine, same length, same wave to it. Similar build, maybe an inch taller, but the thing that made me actually gasp out loud—she had a tattoo on her left shoulder. Not the same design as mine, but in the exact same spot.

In every photo where they were together from three years ago, we could have been sisters. The same smile, the same way of tilting our heads in photos.

I barely slept.

The next morning, Mason was making breakfast like everything was normal. Humming some song, scrambling eggs. I set his tablet on the counter. Rachel’s Instagram still pulled up.

“I can explain,” he said, but he was already crying.

And then he did explain. Rachel had cheated on him with his brother at their engagement party. He’d walked in on them in his childhood bedroom, the room where he’d planned out their entire future. She’d destroyed him, he said, completely broken his ability to trust anyone.

“When I met you, I thought—I thought it was fate.” His voice cracked. “You looked just like her, but you were everything she wasn’t. Kind and loyal and good.”

I wanted to throw up.

“So, you dated me because I looked like your ex?”

“No. I mean, yes, at first,” but he was sobbing now. “I fell in love with you. But every time I see that tattoo, every time you wear your hair that way, I see her. I see what she did. I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I thought if I could just change those things, just make you look a little different, I could stop seeing her when I look at you.”

“You need therapy,” I told him. My voice surprisingly steady. “Not a girlfriend makeover.”

He grabbed my wrist. “You can’t leave. Rachel said the same thing right before she cheated. If you walk out that door, I’ll know you’re just like her. His grip tightened. “And I can’t let that happen again.”

His fingers dug into my skin hard enough that I knew there would be marks. I forced myself to take a slow breath and look at him like everything was fine.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I told him, keeping my voice steady even though my hands were shaking.

He stared at me for what felt like forever, his eyes doing this weird searching thing like he was trying to read my mind. Then his grip loosened just enough for me to pull away.

I grabbed my phone off the coffee table and walked to the bathroom as normally as I could manage, even though every muscle in my body wanted to run.

The second I locked the door, my heart started pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. I sat on the edge of the bathtub and opened my phone, my fingers fumbling on the screen. I typed out a message to Sienna with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Need you to call me right now. Emergency.”

I hit send and stared at the screen, counting the seconds.

1, 2, 3, 4.

My phone buzzed in my hand, and Sienna’s name lit up the screen. I answered it fast, trying to make my voice sound normal.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Mason started pounding on the bathroom door before I could even hear Sienna’s response.

“Who are you talking to?” His voice was too loud, too angry. “Why did you lock the door?”

I could hear Sienna asking if I was okay, her voice sharp with worry. I talked over Mason’s pounding, loud enough for him to hear through the door.

“What? Mom’s in the hospital.” Sienna caught on immediately, her voice switching to the scared tone that sounded completely real. “You need to come right now. She’s asking for you.”

“I’m outside your building. I’ll drive you.”

Thank God for my sister. I unlocked the bathroom door, and Mason was standing right there, his face red and his hands clenched into fists.

“I have to go. My mom’s in the hospital.”

His expression changed fast, cycling through anger to confusion to something that looked almost like he didn’t believe me.

“I’ll drive you,” he said, reaching for his keys on the counter.

“Sienna’s already outside,” I told him, grabbing my purse from the chair. “She’s waiting for me right now.”

I shoved my phone in my pocket and grabbed my keys, leaving my laptop and most of my clothes behind. If I tried to pack, he would know something was wrong.

Mason followed me to the door, his eyes narrow and suspicious.

“Which hospital? What happened?”

“I don’t know. Sienna just said to come now.”

I pulled the door open, and he followed me into the hallway, staying close enough that I could feel him behind me. The elevator would take too long and trap me in a small space with him. So, I headed for the stairs instead. I practically ran down all four flights, taking the steps two at a time, my purse bouncing against my hip.

I could hear Mason behind me, his footsteps heavy and fast. I hit the lobby door hard and burst outside into the evening air. Sienna’s car was right there at the curb, engine running, exactly like she’d said.

I yanked the passenger door open and threw myself inside.

“Go,” I said, and she pulled away from the curb before I even got my seatbelt on.

Both of us watched the rearview mirror to see if Mason came running out of the building. He did, standing on the sidewalk with his phone in his hand, but we were already half a block away. Sienna didn’t say anything until we turned the corner and the building disappeared from view.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

I looked down at my wrist and there were red marks where his fingers had been.

“Not really,” I said, but my voice cracked. “I’m okay.”

We drove to her house in silence, my whole body shaking now that I was safe. The second we got inside and she locked the door behind us, I completely fell apart. I sat on her couch and cried so hard I couldn’t breathe, and she just held me and let me get snot all over her shirt.

When I could finally talk, I told her everything. The tattoo thing, the gym obsession, the hair dye, finding Rachel’s Instagram, all of it. I told her about Mason’s grip on my wrist and what he said about not letting it happen again.

Sienna’s face got more and more scared as I talked. When I finished, she was quiet for a minute. Then she told me about her ex-boyfriend from college. This guy named Derek who started out sweet and then got weird about what she wore and who she talked to.

It started small, she said. He’d make comments about my clothes being too tight or my friends being bad influences. Then he started showing up places I didn’t tell him I’d be. Then he grabbed my arm during an argument and left bruises. Her voice got really quiet.

I stayed for six more months after that, making excuses for him, thinking he’d change. He didn’t change. He got worse.

I felt sick hearing her say it because I could see myself doing the same thing with Mason, making excuses, thinking the tattoo thing was just stress.

“Promise me you won’t go back there alone,” Sienna said, grabbing both my hands. “Promise me right now.”

“I promise,” I told her.

She got up and started making up the guest room while I sat there trying to process everything.

My phone buzzed, and I looked at it. Mason had sent 15 texts in the last 20 minutes.

“Where are you? Which hospital? Why aren’t you answering?” Then they got angrier. “You’re lying about your mom. I know you’re lying.” Then desperate. “Please just talk to me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

I blocked his number and watched the text stop coming through.

Sienna brought me pajamas and a glass of water and told me to try to sleep, but I just lay there in her guest bed staring at the ceiling.

The next morning, I woke up to pounding on Sienna’s front door. Mason’s voice came through loud and clear, yelling about how he knew I’d lied about the hospital and demanding I come out and talk to him.

Sienna ran into the guest room.

“Stay here,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “I’m calling the police.”

I sat on the bed with my knees pulled up to my chest, listening to Mason yell and pound on the door. He sounded out of control, nothing like the guy I’d been dating for eight months.

The police showed up fast, and I heard a woman’s voice telling Mason to step away from the property. Through the window, I watched him argue with her, his hands waving around, his face red. The officer was calm but firm, taking notes while Mason talked. Then she said something that made him go quiet, and he looked up at the window where I was watching.

I ducked back fast.

The officer came to the door after Mason left, and Sienna let her in. She sat down with us in the living room and asked me to explain what was going on. I told her about the wrist grab and the threats, and she nodded like she’d heard this story a hundred times before.

“This is a pattern of behavior that often gets worse,” she said, pulling out some papers from her folder. “I’d strongly suggest you consider getting a restraining order.” She handed me information about domestic violence resources and a card for a legal aid office. “Don’t go back to that apartment without a police escort to get your things. It’s not safe.”

After she left, I called in sick to work, which I never do. My boss was understanding and told me to take care of myself.

Then my phone buzzed with a text from Cooper, my coworker.

“Hey, are you okay? Mason just showed up here looking for you. He seemed really upset.”

My stomach dropped reading those words. I texted back fast.

“Don’t tell him anything about where I am. Please. I’m not in a good situation with him right now.”

Cooper responded immediately.

“Got it. I already told him I didn’t know anything. Do you need help?”

The fact that Mason had gone to my office, that he was actively trying to track me down, made everything feel so much more real and scary. I warned Cooper not to give him any information.

Then I sat on Sienna’s couch and tried to figure out what to do next.

The next morning, Cooper texted me back saying he’d already talked to our office manager about the situation. Within an hour, I got a message from HR saying they’d updated building security with Mason’s photo and description, and that front desk staff were told not to let him up or give out any information about me.

It was embarrassing knowing my personal problems were now office gossip. But Cooper sent another text saying half our design team wanted to form a protective circle around my desk, which actually made me laugh for the first time in days.

I spent the rest of that day on Sienna’s laptop researching restraining orders and something called coercive control. The articles I found described Mason’s behavior exactly, like someone had been watching our relationship and writing it all down—the isolation from friends, the constant criticism disguised as concern, the attempts to change my appearance, the obsessive monitoring at the gym, the explosion when I refused his demands.

One article said, “Abusers often escalate when their control is threatened.” Which explained why Mason got so angry when I said no to the hair dye.

I felt sick reading through case studies of women who stayed, thinking their partners would change, only to end up in worse situations. I’d been so close to making excuses for him, so close to staying.

Sienna found me crying at her kitchen table, surrounded by printed articles, and came over to hug me. She grabbed her phone and called a therapist friend who gave her a referral to someone who specialized in relationship trauma.

The therapist’s name was Dr. Swanson, and somehow Sienna got me an appointment for that same afternoon. Dr. Swanson’s office was in a quiet building downtown and she had this calm presence that made me feel safe enough to tell her everything.

I explained about Rachel, about Mason trying to reshape me, about the wrist grab and the threat. She took notes the whole time and her face got more serious as I talked. When I finished, she set down her pen and looked at me directly.

She told me I was in danger and had done exactly the right thing by leaving. Mason was having a psychological break, she explained, projecting all his trauma about Rachel and his brother’s betrayal onto me instead of dealing with his actual feelings. He was trying to rewrite the past by controlling me, and that kind of behavior often escalated to violence.

She offered to write a letter supporting a restraining order application, saying my case was clear-cut, and judges took this type of obsessive behavior seriously.

I left her office feeling validated, but also terrified because having a professional confirm the danger made it all more real.

That evening at Sienna’s house, I finally looked at the blocked messages from Mason. There were over 50 of them now, and I scrolled through watching them change from apologetic to angry to desperate. The early ones said he was sorry and wanted to talk. The middle ones accused me of being dramatic and ruining everything.

But the most recent message sent just an hour ago made my hands start shaking. It said he’d found Rachel on social media and told her all about me and that Rachel agreed I was going to cheat too, that we were both the same kind of person.

The idea of Mason contacting his ex about me, of them discussing me like I was some kind of problem to solve, made me feel violated in a whole new way.

I showed the message to Sienna and she immediately said we were going to the courthouse first thing in the morning.

I barely slept that night, jumping at every sound, convinced Mason would somehow find Sienna’s address.

The next morning, we drove to the courthouse and I filled out the restraining order paperwork in a small room with fluorescent lights. The process was surprisingly straightforward, but writing everything down in one place was exhausting.

I had to list every incident, every threat, every time Mason tried to control my appearance or behavior. Seeing it all written out like that made the pattern obvious in a way it hadn’t been when I was living through it day by day.

The clerk reviewed my application and said a judge could see me that afternoon for a temporary order. We waited for three hours in a hallway with other people seeking protection orders, and I wondered how many of them had similar stories.

When my name was called, the judge read through my application quickly and asked me a few questions about the wrist grab and Mason’s threats. She looked at Dr. Swanson’s letter and the screenshots of Mason’s messages.

Then, she signed the temporary restraining order right there, saying Mason had to stay at least 500 ft away from me from Sienna’s house and from my workplace. He’d be served with the papers within 24 hours.

I felt this weird mixture of relief and guilt walking out of the courtroom. Part of me wondered if I was overreacting, if Mason was really that dangerous or just hurt and confused. But then I remembered what Dr. Swanson had said during our session.

That Mason had grabbed my wrist hard enough to hurt and threatened me when I tried to leave. That wasn’t love. That was control.

With the restraining order in place, I called the police non-emergency line and arranged an escort to collect my belongings from the apartment. Two officers, one woman and one man, met Sienna and me at the building the next day. They explained Mason had been served with the order that morning and was required to wait outside the building while we packed. We had exactly one hour.

Walking into the apartment felt surreal and scary, like entering a crime scene. Everything looked normal at first, the same furniture and decorations from when I’d lived there. But then I saw what Mason had done.

He’d printed out photos of Rachel from her Instagram and photos of me from my own social media and arranged them side by side on the living room wall. Under each pair of photos, he’d written notes in red pen comparing our features, circling similarities, drawing arrows between matching details.

The officers exchanged these concerned looks, and the woman immediately started taking photos with her phone, saying this supported the restraining order, and showed clear obsessive behavior.

I felt sick looking at Mason’s analysis of my faceThe canvas tool has been disabled. Do not send any more messages to=canvas.
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