I always hated parties. The noise, the laughter, the desperate clinking of glasses—it all seemed like a masquerade of loneliness disguised as joy.
So when my friends signed me up for something called "Pop the Balloon"—a dating challenge of all things—I nearly strangled them.
But Kerry and Namita insisted. Ava even bribed me with chocolate cake.
And Aisha, the voice of reason, said: "At least try. Who knows, you might find someone worth talking to."
I went, against every instinct telling me not to.
The hall was decorated with ribbons, red balloons tied to our wrists, the symbol of "interest."
A man would walk in, declare his qualities, and if we didn't like him—we popped the balloon.
Simple, humiliating, cruel. And i hated it already.
One by one, the men came.
A banker. A fitness coach. An accountant.
Each faced a firing squad of women armed with balloons. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Rejection was the cheapest here and it echoed like bullets.
I cringed at their faces—forced smiles cracking as they walked away.
I was bored, almost pitying these poor souls lined up like cattle for slaughter.
I thought I'd leave with nothing but second-hand embarrassment and a story to tell my friends.
I wanted to storm out.
Until the last man entered.
He walked in like he owned the air we breathed.
Black hair combed neatly back, eyes dark as obsidian, smile polished to perfection. His name: Jermin.
The women gasped. Their balloons floated gently, untouched.
One even whispered: "Oh my God."
Then he spoke. His voice was low, velvet smooth, dripping with calm confidence.
"I am Jermin. I own a series of companies abroad. I paint in my free time. I believe in loyalty, kindness, and patience."
Qualities of a dream man. Too perfect. Too flawless.
No one popped their balloon. Not a single one.
The hostess beamed, certain he was the star of today's show.
But me?
My fingers trembled.
Something in his eyes wasn't right.
They weren't simply black—they swallowed.
They pulled. As if behind that smile was a pit, deep and endless.
My stomach knotted, instincts screaming.
Pop!
The sound shocked the room.
My balloon dangled in tatters.
Every head turned.
Balloons clutched tightly. The hostess's jaw hung open.
The women stared at me like I had just committed blasphemy.
The man — Jermin — blinked, confusion flashing across his face. But behind the confusion was something else.
Amusement.
The hostess stammered: "Why… why would you pop? Isn't he perfect?"
I couldn't answer. My voice felt stolen.
Finally, trembling, I whispered:
"He's… too much for me. I'm not qualified."
The women snickered. Some laughed outright.
But it was a lie. The truth was simpler.
He terrifies me.
The hostess pressed for more answers, but I shook my head and excused myself, leaving my balloon carcass on the floor.
I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I could feel his gaze following me out the door.
*********
At home, my friends teased me.
"You're crazy," Kerry said. "That man was gold. And you—popped?! Do you want to stay single for the rest of your life?!"
Namita giggled. "Jessica always picks books over men. No wonder."
Ava smacked Namita on the head. "stop teasing my baby, did you forget you're also single?"
But it was Aisha who stared at me, her gaze serious. "did you saw something? You were looking pale on the show"
I forced a smile. "No no. Am fine and he is not my type."
Aisha gave me a soft smile, " as long as you're safe and happy "
Namita pouted, Jessy and Aisha always chooses grass over grace"
We all laughed.
But in the pit of my chest, I knew I had escaped something I couldn't name.
Or so I thought.
************
A month later, I was called to a private client's home.
I'm a therapist at a public hospital, but sometimes I take private cases.
The address led me to a mansion, towering and beautiful, with servants waiting at the gate.
The butler led me inside.
The guest room smelled faintly of lavender and something metallic.
I sat, admiring the grandeur. I wondered why would such a man want an ordinary therapist like me.
I checked his name again: Jermin Susso.
I didn't suspect until i heard a voice behind me.
"Jessica. We meet again."
I froze.
That voice…..
My blood ran cold.
I turned.
There, standing at the top of the staircase, was Jermin.
The man I had rejected.
The man whose eyes had swallowed me whole.
He smiled, as if amused by fate.
"I was hoping it would be you."
He thanked me for coming, said he had been "in need of someone who truly understood him."
**********
Our sessions began normally. Or almost normally.
He talked about loneliness. About pressure. About sleepless nights.
All the textbook signs of stress and depression.
I listened, took notes, offered techniques. Professional. Detached.
But Jermin… was never detached.
He leaned closer than necessary.
He held my hand after every session, fingers tightening until I had to pull away.
But he'd smile as if I hadn't. As if, in his mind, I hadn't really refused.
Once, he even hugged me.
I told myself it was harmless. I told myself he was just lonely.
But then came the questions.
"Do you live alone?"
"Do you ever feel… unwanted?"
"Would you ever abandon someone who loved you?"
Each time, his black eyes pinned me, as if I were the patient.
As if he was studying me.
By the third week, I was trembling after every session.
He told me stories of his childhood, his wounds, his fears.
He painted himself as fragile, misunderstood. He called me his anchor, his salvation.
It should have been flattering. But it wasn't.
It was suffocating. Because underneath every word, there was calculation.
His compliments weren't casual — they were darts aimed precisely at the cracks in my heart.
"You're the only one who sees me, Jessica."
"You're too kind for this world."
"Without you, I'd be lost."
I told myself I was his therapist, nothing more.
But then he began to blur the line.
Gifts arrived at my apartment. Flowers, books, expensive dresses.
When I refused them, he acted wounded, like I'd broken his heart.
*********
By the fourth week, I realized the truth.
He wasn't seeking therapy.
He was seeking me.
The first time I tried to quit, he laughed.
"Leave? Jessica, don't be absurd. You're the only one who understands me, why would you do that?"
I lied and said my hospital needed me full time.
The next day, my supervisor received a letter—apparently from me—requesting indefinite leave.
My ID card was confiscated. I was told to "enjoy my sabbatical."
I hadn't written the letter.
I knew exactly who had.
Then the messages started.
My friends texted: "Good luck overseas!""Send pictures!""Proud of you for studying abroad!"
But i hadn't told them anything.
Jermin had.
He…he had crafted the lie perfectly.
And they believed it.
And when I called them, his voice echoed in my head: If tell them… I might hurt them.
So I played along. I laughed on calls. I told them I was fine.
And every time I hung up, I broke a little more.
Jermin tightened the leash with invisible hands.
He memorized my schedule. He bought me clothes, jewelry, things I never asked for.
He read my diary. He even rearranged my bookshelves, saying he wanted to "organize my thoughts."
"You're mine," he whispered one night, brushing my hair back. "You just don't see it yet."
I tried to run. Twice.
The first time, the taxi never arrived.
The second time, the driver dropped me at the wrong location—right back at Jermin's gate.
He had planned it all. Every move. Every breath.
I wasn't his therapist anymore.
I was his prey.
**************
The worst part wasn't the control.
It wasn't the lies.
It was the way he made me doubt myself.
When I screamed, he soothed me. When I cried, he begged me to stop with his eyes.
When I begged, he kissed my forehead and said: "You'll understand one day. This is my love."
And part of me—broken, tired, hollow—wanted to believe him.
That terrified me more than anything.
***********
The last night, I stopped fighting.
I sat in his lap, his arms wrapped around me, his lips brushing my hair.
His voice was low, gentle, possessive.
"You're perfect like this," he murmured.
"Empty of fear. Empty of doubt. Just mine."
My eyes were dry. My heart was numb.
I had nothing left.
And Jermin, smiled, satisfied, victorious.
"You see? You were always meant for me. From the moment you popped that balloon."
That's when i realized…if only i didn't pop the balloon.
Stream Commentary; Tape #45. "Pop The Balloon "
(The stream flickers back alive, static crackling as kai leans forward, his shadowed goggles glinting. His smile is faint, almost unreadable)
Ah… 'Pop the Balloon.' A game of love, obsession, and fragile hearts.
Jermin, Jessica, the balloon… tell me, myfriends—what do we think of Jermin? What do we think of this love?"
[@Enchomay: Loneliness. I see a boy, starved of affection, clinging to the first glimmer of warmth he touched. Jermin wasn't wicked from the start—he was hollow. Jessica's kindness was a candle in his dark room, but he mistook it for fire that belonged to him. I pity him. Truly. When a soul has been denied love long enough, obsession begins to wear the mask of devotion]
[@Jaija: Ha! Devotion? Don't excuse him. He was a parasite feeding off her life. He didn't love Jessica—he loved the reflection of himself in her eyes. When she popped the balloon, she wasn't cruel. She was escaping! And Jermin… Jermin punished her for daring to breathe without him. That is not romance. That a poisonous rot. I don't like him at all!]
[@642: Oh, how delicious. Humans and their endless need for chains called love. They beg for it, claw for it, twist it into something grotesque. Jermin? He was just another starving wolf gnawing at a bone. Jessica? She was prey who refused to be eaten.
I condemn him… but I also condemn all of them. Every human who confuses possession for passion deserves to choke on their hunger]
[@Ovesix: I disagree with you all. Love is not the villain. Loneliness is. The fault lies in the silence that raised Jermin, in the neglect that carved out his emptiness. His desperation is tragic. Jessica's choice to destroy the balloon was not cruelty—it was survival. Humans long for love because love is their anchor. Without it, they drift, unmoored. Jermin drifted too far. And in his drowning, he pulled her under with him]
[@Jaija: i have to admit it… there's tragedy in him. He was a boy unloved, a man unwanted. I don't defend him, but I understand him. Some of us… are not meant to taste love. And when we do… it poisons us]
Sorrow. Blame. Pity. Condemnation. All echoing in the void. Then, slowly, the camera pans back to Kai, who listens in silence, fingers tapping once against the table.
He sits back in the gloom, sipping something from a glass that catches the faint light. His tone is cool, detached, but weighted with thought.
"You all see in pieces. But here's the whole picture: Love is not poison, nor salvation.
It is a test.
Jermin failed it because he mistook obsession for care.
Jessica… she survived it, though the cost was her innocence.
The lesson, dear listeners, is simple.
Loneliness is dangerous, yes—but when fed with obsession, it breeds monsters.
And when you mistake possession for love, you become a jailer, not a partner.
Humans chase love because they fear the void inside them.
But beware… obsession dressed as love is not warmth.
It is fire. And it burns."
(He finishes his drink with a faint smirk)
"And you, dear listeners, you who sit beyond the glass—listen closely.
Love, when twisted, becomes a knife.
Obsession is the shadow that walks behind desire.
And loneliness? Loneliness is the soil where all of it grows".
"Beware when someone says they cannot live without you.
Because one day, they may decide you should not live without them, either."
So tell me, reader… are you Jermin? Or are you Jessica?
Which role will you play when love demands its price?"
And as for balloons… be careful what you pop.
Sometimes the sound you hear is not rubber… but sanity snapping."
(He chuckled)
"And for our next tale…
The next story will not offer you love at all… only whispers in the dark.
The tale I call—'The Basement That Speaks.'
STREAM ENDED