It's way too bright outside today. I hid in my room with the curtains drawn, rewatching my favorite episodes just to drown out the silence. I hate how my brain works sometimes—how it keeps replaying the past until I feel sick. The only time the noise stops is when I'm writing, so I started a new scene today. My protagonist is being held down, completely helpless and exposed, while a faceless man forces his massive cock down her throat until she chokes. She's terrified, but her cunt is dripping wet, betraying her mind. It's so fucked up to write, but putting those words on the screen makes the heat in my chest feel less like panic and more like... something else. Something I can control. I just want to disappear into these fantasies where the pain is sharp and clean, not this dull ache that never leaves.