I feel like I'm going to be sick.

Despondently, I watch the bus depart, wondering if I really should have gotten off. I stare at it with longing, like the bus is taking away my one opportunity to abort this insane plan of mine.

Of course, that’s ridiculous. The bus stop is right here. If I truly want to abort, all I need to do is wait for the next bus to come around.

That’s the problem though, isn’t it? I don’t really want to abort, even though I absolutely, unquestionably know that it would be the best thing for me to do.

The only sensible thing for me to do.

Ugh, I can't believe I'm literally living out one of those cringy "I should call her" memes right now. How many times have I laughed at those? It turns out, I’m one of those desperate losers, too.

There’s a knot in my throat. I can barely look at the bus stop. It’s the one where I always used to get off to see Lucy, since her apartment is nearby. Most memories I have about our relationship are tied to this bus stop in some way, both the good and the bad.

But really, mostly the bad.

I should just turn around. Go back to my flat. Pretend I never even thought of this.

That I haven’t psyched myself up for the last week, so I could walk up to Lucy’ door and ring the doorbell, like I’m some kind of lost puppy.

Which is insane. I’ve been pretty bad at keeping in touch with my friends over the last year or so, but if they were here, I know exactly what they would say.

She’s bad for you, Marina. Have you taken leave of your senses, Marina? She’s an emotional vampire, Marina! Wake up!

And they’d be right: she’s no good for me. She never was. In fact, she’s not a good person - period. Lucy… she has issues. That’s putting it mildly. If only I’d realised that sooner…

No, I did realise it. It’s why I broke up with her. I knew it was the right thing, and I still do know that. And yet, here I am.

Because I lost the breakup.

What a stupid way of putting it. It makes no sense. A breakup isn’t some kind of bizarre zero-sum game. It’s not a contest, to see who deals with it better than the other party. To see who lost out with the end of the relationship, and who’s the one that’s shedded some dead weight.

I pump a fist against my thigh, because I hate that line of reasoning. It’s childish, immature, jealous, and fucking impossible to ignore.

I’ve been living in hell, for months. I thought I was the one shedding dead weight, but it’s just not how things have turned out. As far as I can tell, Lucy seems to be doing perfectly fine without me.

I suppose that shouldn’t really surprise me. She was a shut-off loner before we got together, and she’s a shut-off loner now. She has her books, her videogames, plenty of TV shows to binge. Patently, that’s enough for her.

I mean, even though she hasn’t read the reconciliatory message I sent her last week, she hasn’t even blocked me or anything. As if it didn’t even matter…

That hurts like a bitch.

Life without Lucy has been… lonely. In part, because of her. She was the one who progressively cut me off from all my friends. She was the one slowly turning me from the confident, outgoing girl I used to be, into an emotional wreck kept together with tape and glue.

I’m almost happy that there’s a bit of resentment inside me still. It’s the emotion that allowed me to break up with her in the first place. I should use that, and walk away now, before I make an irreparable mistake.

And yet, I find myself walking away from the bus stop. Because I’m a stupid, stupid girl who feels so incomplete without her. Like it’s not fair that she’s gone from my life, even though I’m the one who stepped away.

I feel a lump rising in my throat as I round the corner onto her street. The closer I get to her place, the more the memories come flooding back. I spent so much time, did so much emotional labour, trying to help her break out of her shell. To hang out with my friends, and make new ones of her own.

I was so smitten with her. I still am.

Every single time I tried, her face would scrunch up in discomfort. She would equivocate, delay, avoid the topic without outwardly saying no… until the very last minute.

It became a pattern. Every time I'd invite Lucy to go out with me and my friends - to the movies, the mall, out dancing - she'd make an excuse. Too many people. Too loud. Too overwhelming. She much preferred quiet nights in - just the two of us watching TV, reading side by side, or playing video games.

Mostly me watching her play videogames.

It happened so gradually, so insidiously - like the frog in slowly boiling water. At first, it seemed sweet how Lucy wanted to spend all her free time with me, just the two of us. I took it as a sign of her devotion, her desire to be close to me.

But of course, it isolated me.

Lucy said she needed me. She made that abundantly, achingly clear. Without me, she'd fall apart - or so she claimed. If that was ever true, it’s certainly not now, in fact I’m the one who’s fallen apart.

But at the time, the co-dependence she was fostering made me feel so fucking rewarded. No one else understood her like I did. No one else could soothe her anxieties, weather her mercurial moods, understand her hidden depths.

I felt privileged that I got to listen to her rambles about her niche interests, because she felt safe enough to share them with me. Like she’d chosen me.

It made me feel special. Like I was the only one who could see past her prickly exterior to the true, wounded, intelligent self within.

Until the weight became too much to bear. It was exhausting, emotionally draining, and it sent me away.

So what the fuck am I doing, back here, in front of this building?

Because I love her.

At the end of the day, there really isn’t much else to say. It’s a simple question, with a simple answer. She made me a worse person, and I love her. She used to give me headscratches that made me feel so calm whenever life seemed to hard, and I love her. She was emotionally abusive to me, and I love her. Sex with her was fantastic, and I love her.

Maybe that’s a good enough reason to act stupid.

Before I can stop myself, before I can talk myself out of it, I press the button.

The intercom crackles to life almost immediately, and I hear her voice. "Hello?"

Just hearing that voice again makes my guts twist and my hands clench. I desperately miss her, but that’s never been more painfully clear than it is right now. I miss her like oxygen.

I clear my throat, trying to steady my voice. "Hey, uh, it's… it's me. Marina."

There's a long pause. Seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

Then, the door buzzes open.

This is really happening, then, I think to myself, as I numbly head inside and start slowly climbing the stairs. I really am back here. I haven’t been in months. This is surreal.

When I get to the fourth floor, the door to her apartment is already open. She’s standing at the threshold, waiting for me.

Lucy.

She's wearing an oversized t-shirt and stained sweatpants, her dark hair pulled back in a bun. She looks surprised to see me.

"Hi,” she says when I approach her. "What do you want?"

I swallow hard, struggling to keep my emotions in check. “I… I needed to see you. Can I come in?”

She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Then, with a reluctant sigh, she steps aside, letting me into the apartment.

It's just as I remember it - cluttered and chaotic, with empty takeout containers scattered across the coffee table. The air is stale, tinged with the faint scent of unwashed laundry.

Guess some things never change.

We got together in our first year of uni. She was a mess, even back then. Her room was so untidy, and she only ever ate junk food. She was apparently oblivious to the idea that wearing the same clothes for a couple days straight, and being lax with laundry, made her look like a slob.

Still, she was always so sweet and adoring. She looked up to me with those wide, innocent eyes, and I fell for her so fucking hard. I heard more opposites attract jokes in my first year as her girlfriend than I have in the entire rest of my life.

When we started dating, she was still so insecure. I remember the way she would look at me, like she couldn’t believe I was real. Like I was some kind of goddess, and she was unworthy.

That didn’t last long.

Lucy sits down on the sofa, crossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest. She leans back, her posture radiating a cool indifference that makes my stomach twist. I stand there awkwardly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

She doesn't invite me to sit down, and the message is clear - I'm not welcome here anymore. That’s… very hard, when my brain is currently busy bombarding me with all the memories of the movie nights we spent cuddling on that very sofa. The conversations, way into the small hours of the morning.

Is it really all unsalvageable?

I gulp, my mouth suddenly dry. I knew this would be difficult, but the reality of it is hitting me like a punch to the gut. Lucy's eyes bore into me with what I can only interpret as a mixture of curiosity and vague disdain.

For some reason, the idea that she might think ill of me, that she might no longer respect me or think of me as a positive person, makes me feel so anxious. I deliberately avoid focusing on it, or I’ll start hyperventilating.

"So," she says, her voice flat. "You said you wanted… no, needed to see me. What for? I thought we were done."

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "I… I miss you," I say with a sigh. God, it feels good to be able to just say it out loud, to get it off my chest. "I've been thinking about you a lot lately… all the time, really, and I just… I needed to see you."

Lucy raises an eyebrow. "Action, meet consequence," she says. "Maybe you should have thought twice before breaking up with me, then."

"I know," I say softly, my voice trembling slightly. "I know I hurt you, Lucy. And I'm sorry for that. But... but I've been miserable without you. I thought I could move on, but I can't. I can't stop thinking about you."

Lucy stares at me, her expression unreadable. I search her face for any hint of emotion, any sign that my words are having an impact, but there's nothing. Just a blank, impassive mask.

"You're miserable without me?" she asks, her voice flat. "That's funny, because I seem to remember you being pretty miserable with me, too."

I’m struggling to stay on top of the anxiety. I’m wringing my hands together, fidgeting in place. Why won’t she see? I saw it with such clarity earlier, when I was outside: yes, all of that is true, as are my grievances, but the part that matters is that I love her.

So, that’s what I’m going to tell her.

"It wasn't healthy, Lucy. But I love you so, so much, and that’s more important. It’s the only thing that matters to me now-"

I take a step towards her, my hands trembling at my sides. She watches me warily, her body tensing as I approach.

Fuck. That’s a no, then. I lower my hand, taking a step back, and breathe in, trying to regroup, to collect my thoughts.

"Look," I say, "We tried to be together, and it didn’t work out the first time. It happens. Now I want to make things right. I want to be with you again. Can't we just... can't we just try?"

A flicker of something dark and cruel flashes in Lucy's eyes. She leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and fixes me with a calculating stare.

"Here’s the fundamental problem you keep ignoring,” she says. "We completely disagree that the relationship wasn’t working out. That’s literally the reason you left me. The way things were suited me perfectly. You’re the one who was miserable. Now you’re miserable again. Maybe I’m not the problem, am I, Marina?”

My heart beats faster.

"What are you saying?"

"I’m saying," Lucy says with a roll of her eyes, "that you’re the one who called it quits. Now, you want back in, you say that loving me is the only thing that matters. Very well, put your money where your mouth is. Love me for who I am. All the things you said you left me for, they should not bother you anymore… if you’re serious about this. And if not, well, why are we even having this conversation?”

I blink, stupefied. This is an ultimatum. She’s literally telling me it’s her way or the highway.

"I…" I say, fishing for things to say, trying to tell her that she’s being harsh and unreasonable without completely scuppering my chances at making this conversation go where I want it to go. "I thought maybe we’d… meet each other halfway? You know, compromise…"

"Why would I meet you halfway?" She asks, cutting me off. "I was fine with our relationship as it was. And I’m fine with being single now. You’re the one who’s desperate. I don't need you anymore. I've moved on. I'm doing just fine without you."

Her words hit me like a slap in the face. I reel back, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over. "You... you don't need me?" I repeat, my voice small and broken.

Lucy leans back, a smug smile playing at the corners of her lips. "No, Marina, I don't. Simple as that."

I feel like I can't breathe. The room is spinning around me, and I grip the back of the sofa for support. That incredible feeling that came with the codependence, unhealthy as it was… the feeling of being special… I’ll never get to feel it again, is that what she’s saying?

"But... but I love you," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I still love you."

Lucy makes a show of rolling her eyes again. "Wow,” she mutters, half to herself, “you’ve got it worse than I thought.”

“W-what do you mean?”

She shrugs. "I knew you were needy, but this is just sad. It's embarrassing. No… not embarrassing. What’s the word I’m looking for? Ah, yes. Pathetic."

The word "pathetic" slices into me like a knife. I flinch from the near-physical sting of humiliation.

Seeing me at a complete loss for words, Lucy clearly sees it as her duty to single-handedly continue the conversation. "You do realise it, right? How this looks? Imagine if any of your friends could see you now,” she says.

Then, she makes air quotes, throwing my words back at me in a mocking voice. "I thought maybe we’d meet each other halfway." She shakes her head. "There’s nothing about your behaviour that says halfway. You’ve literally come crawling back to me."

It hurts. Why is she being hurtful?

I swallow hard, my cheeks burning with shame. "I... I don't care," I say, my voice shaking. "I don't care if it's pathetic. I just... I need you, Lucy. I need you like I need air to breathe."

Lucy shows no outward response to my desperate plea. She just sits there, her expression unreadable, apparently lost in thought. The silence stretches between us, thick and oppressive, broken only by the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I stand there, trembling, my heart pounding in my chest as I wait for her to say something, anything. But she remains silent, her eyes distant and unfocused, as if she's not even seeing me at all.

The seconds tick by, each one feeling like an eternity. I can feel the sweat beading on my forehead, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my gut. I want to scream, to shout, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she acknowledges me. But I don't. I can't. I'm frozen, waiting, as if she’s sitting in judgement of me.

Maybe she is.

Finally, after what feels like an age, Lucy speaks. But it's not the response I'm expecting, not the acknowledgement of my feelings or the reciprocation of my need. Instead, she says, as if a complete non sequitur:

"I'm thirsty."

Just that. Nothing else. No reaction to my outpouring of emotion, no indication that she's even heard me at all. Just a simple statement of fact, delivered in a flat, disinterested tone.

I blink, taken aback by the abruptness of her words. "W-what?"

"I said, I'm thirsty," Lucy repeats, her tone slightly impatient now, as if she's annoyed at having to repeat herself.

Dazed and disoriented, I find myself moving towards the kitchen as if in a trance. It's like I'm on autopilot.

With trembling hands, I reach for a glass from the cabinet and turn on the faucet, fill the glass, and stop for a moment to contemplate it, as if it holds some deeper significance, some answer about how lost I feel in my life right now.

I guess she’s right. I do have it bad.

I bring the glass back to her, my steps heavy and leaden. She takes it from me without a word of thanks, bringing it to her lips and taking a long, slow sip. She's making a point, I realize. She's showing me that she's still in control, that she can still make me dance to her tune.

She sets the glass down on the coffee table with a deliberate clink, the sound echoing in the silence of the room. She leans back, crossing her legs again, the right over the left, and fixes me with a look of smug satisfaction.

Her right foot bobs gently up and down in the air as she contemplates me.

This isn't going how I hoped at all. I'm not making any progress, not getting through to her. The last time I tried to touch her, to bridge the chasm between us, she tensed up, her body language screaming rejection.

Desperate to reduce the distance, to create some sense of intimacy, I slowly lower myself to the floor. I sit cross-legged on the carpet, looking up at her on the couch.

"I… I don't know what you want from me," I say. "Even if I say yes to everything, even if I… accept… I mean, don’t you love me back? Don’t you want to see me happy? I’m begging you right now, I swear."

Lucy looks down at me, pointedly. I’m confused for a moment, but then, I start to realise the implication of what I’m done.

I'm literally sitting at her feet now, pleading with her from a place of physical subordination.

Lucy remains silent, her expression inscrutable as she gazes down at me. The seconds stretch into an eternity, marked only by the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

I can see the gears turning behind her eyes.

As the silence drags on, I begin to fidget, my hands twisting nervously in my lap. I can't bear the tension, the uncertainty. I need her to say something, to do something. Anything to break this suffocating stillness.

And then, almost imperceptibly, she moves.

It's just a small shift at first, a subtle extension of her right foot. Her sock-clad toes flex, then point, the fabric stretching taut. The movement is nonchalant, almost lazy, as if she's simply adjusting her position on the couch.

Instinctively, without even thinking, I reach out and take her foot in my hands. My fingers begin to knead the soft fabric of her sock, rubbing and massaging in the way I know she likes. It's a familiar motion, one I've done countless times before, back when things were different between us.

But this isn't like before. Not really.

We… did do some foot stuff, occasionally. Sometimes we liked to play with the idea that I was her footstool or something - she’d rest her feet on my back while she gamed. That sort of thing. But it was… kinky.

This doesn’t feel kinky, or at least not just kinky. It certainly doesn’t feel loving, or intimate. It just feels…

Demeaning.

I chance a glance up at her face and see that her expression has shifted. The distant, thoughtful look is gone, replaced by something else entirely.

She's surprised, I can tell. But as I continue working my fingers, her expression shifts, morphing from puzzled surprise to a glimmer of intrigue.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corners of her mouth begin to twitch upwards. It's a subtle movement at first, just the barest hint of a smile. But as I continue my ministrations, as my fingers knead and caress the soft fabric of her sock, the smile grows wider, more pronounced.

It's not a warm smile, not a loving or affectionate one. It's a smile of triumph, of smug satisfaction. A smile that says she's won, that she's gotten exactly what she wants.

Lucy lets out a soft, throaty chuckle as she watches me, her eyes glinting with a dark amusement. "Well, well, well," she murmurs, her voice low and silky. "Isn't this interesting."

I keep my eyes downcast, focusing intently on the task literally at hand. I can feel the heat of her gaze on the top of my head, boring into me, seeing straight through me. My cheeks burn with humiliation, with the sickening realization of just how far I've fallen.

"You know, Marina," Lucy says, her tone conversational, almost casual. "I always knew you were needy. Clingy, even. But this..." She pauses, letting the word hang in the air between us. "This is something else entirely."

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. I want to protest, to defend myself, but the words die on my tongue. Because she's right, isn't she? Look at me, sitting here at her feet, massaging her like some sort of devoted servant. It's pathetic, just like she said earlier.

And just like I said earlier, pathetic is a worthy price to pay if I can be with her again.

"I have to admit," Lucy continues, her voice taking on a note of mock thoughtfulness. "I didn't think you'd actually do it. I mean, I knew you were desperate, but this... this is just sad."

She flexes her foot in my hands, her toes curling and uncurling like a cat kneading a cushion. The movement is deliberate, calculated, a silent demand for more attention.

Obediently, I increase the pressure of my fingers, digging into the soft flesh of her sole through the thin fabric of her sock.

"You're really quite good at this, you know," Lucy muses, her voice dripping with condescension. "All that practice you got when we were together, I suppose. I always did love having you at my feet."

She still hasn’t said she loves me back. But… the tiny crumb of positive affirmation still makes me glow up inside. Even if it’s stupid.

Even if it’s dangerous.

"You know," she muses, her voice taking on a dreamy, almost wistful quality. "I have to say, I'm impressed. I mean, I always knew I had a hold on you, but this... this is something else entirely. I think I… I think I actually own you."

I shiver.

It’s not quite a shiver of fear, nor of arousal, but a little of both. It travels slowly down the length of my body, like ice-cold water trickling down my spine.

Own.

Who uses that word to talk about an ex-girlfriend? Who uses that word to talk about another human being in a normal conversation at all?

Why does it make me feel so flustered?

"I... I don't know what you mean," I say. But even as the words leave my lips, I know they ring hollow. Even I can’t deny I’ve just said this in a purely performative way. Just to invite her to stick the knife in even deeper.

Lucy never misses an opportunity to do stuff like that. She promptly leans forward, her eyes glinting with hunger. "Don’t insult my intelligence," she purrs, her voice low and silky. "I think you know exactly what I mean."

She extends her other foot, pressing it against my chest. The touch is light, almost gentle, but there's an unmistakable… firmness to the gesture.

"Go on, Marina," she says. "Say it. Admit it."

I close my eyes, exhaling softly.

So. I suppose this is what it feels like to lose. To actually lose, to be utterly defeated. Because here I am, at the logical end of my desperation, having laid my heart bare for this girl I love so deeply, this girl who ruined me, and there’s no road left for me to take, nothing left for me to look at… except the truth. As disturbing as it is.

I think back to all the times I've bent over backwards to please her, all the ways I've contorted myself to fit into the spaces she's allowed me. The way I've put her needs, her desires, her very whims above my own, time and time again.

Because it made me feel special.

Even back then, I was subconsciously putting her on a pedestal. I was saying, through my actions, that she had a right to choose me as the girl that fit her needs. I removed myself from the picture, way before either of us actually realised I’d done it.

What does that say about me?

"It’s true," I say, at long last, wringing out every word from the most vulnerable depths of my heart. "I’m less, and you are more. I’m weak, and you are strong. I should have never walked away. I need you. You… you really do own me."

At that, Lucy seems to sigh, too. She relaxes on the sofa, muscles distending, one foot nestling deeper in my hands, the other pressing more insistently against my chest.

"Finally."

I don’t know what to say to that. I just… I keep my head down, rubbing at her foot. It’s not even a real massage anymore, I don’t have the presence of mind to keep up something that organised. I’m just absent-mindedly pressing my fingers against her foot, drawing small circles, listening to my own breathing.

Waiting for her to give me some kind of answer.

"Maybe you’re right," she says, at last. “Maybe your love for me really is the only thing that matters to you now."

She applies a little more pressure with her foot, pushing me back slightly. I have to brace myself with one hand to keep from toppling over, my other hand still dutifully massaging her sock-clad sole.

"You will have to prove it, though… if you really want to earn my good graces again."

"I can do that!" I rush to say, before the moment passes, before the opportunity disappears. "I can love you just the way you are, I swear. Anything to be with you again. I won’t be miserable about it anymore."

"That’s good to hear," Lucy says, before her voice drops to a low, conspirational whisper. "But I trust deeds much better than I do words. Words belong in books, and this is real life."

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "W-what do you mean?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly.

Lucy shrugs casually. “You were the one who came here, begging to be taken back. So… do a better job at groveling. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Do a better job at groveling.

This conversation really hasn’t gone at all how I thought it would. Not from the start. Maybe I’ve been stupid not to expect this, and I would definitely be stupid if I went along with her request. It would basically give her a green light to be just as awful to me as she was when we were together. Which is exactly what she’s asking for, anyway.

Her way or the highway.

It would be so, so stupid to take such a bad deal.

Unfortunately, I have very compelling reason to be stupid right now.

Almost of their own accord, my hands begin to move. I shift my position, turning to face her directly. Then, slowly, deliberately, I lower my head to her foot.

My lips brush against the fabric of her sock, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver through my body. I can feel Lucy's eyes on me, watching me, judging me. I know how pathetic I must look, how desperate and degraded.

But I don't care. All that matters is her, is proving myself to her.

I press my lips more firmly against her sock, unequivocally kissing it.

The fabric is soft against my lips, worn thin from use. I can feel the warmth of her skin beneath, the slight twitch of her toes as I kiss her. The scent of her fills my nostrils - foot sweat. I can’t begin to guess when she last washed this sock. It does make me wince, a little, but I force my lips to stay glued to her foot.

I hold the kiss for a long moment, my lips lingering on the thin fabric.

I feel a profound shift inside me, like a door slamming shut on my past life. This is a point of no return, an act that can never be undone. Even if I walk out of here today, even if I never see Lucy again, I'll always be the girl who kissed her ex-girlfriend's feet - not in an act of passion, but one of supplication.

If I have to explain this to anyone, I won’t be able to just say, haha, I’m just kinky like that! No, I will have to say, I kissed Lucy’s feet in hopes that she would forgive me.

How do you do that, and still consider yourself a human being with an actual spine?

Lucy is silent above me, but I can feel the intensity of her gaze boring into the top of my head. I know she's reveling in this, in seeing me so utterly defeated.

Unable to resist, I chance a glance up at her from my prostrated position. I have to crane my neck at an awkward angle to meet her eyes, my lips still pressed against her foot in an unbroken kiss.

What I see takes my breath away.

Lucy is staring down at me with an expression of pure, undiluted power. Her eyes are dark and gleaming, lit from within by a triumphant fire. Her lips are curled into a smug, satisfied smile, like a cat that's got the cream.

She holds my gaze for a long, intense moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, she flexes her foot against my face.

It’s a downward push. Soon, one foot joins the other, and she gently but firmly accompanies my head to the floor with her foot. I end up with one cheek pressed to the floor, Lucy’s right foot perched across my face, easily pinning me down. Her left foot hovers before my face, waiting to be kissed.

I pucker my lips as the sole presses against them.

She keeps her foot pressed there, against my lips, rubbing it in my face. She draws a slow, gentle arc with her foot, smearing my face with a trail of fluff and faint sweat.

"Have you considered the semiotics of this, Marina?" she asks lightly, her voice dripping with mock curiosity. "You, like this, with the ex-girlfriend you tried so hard to run away from. It's a powerful image, isn't it? Symbolic, psychologically charged."

She pauses, letting the words hang in the air. Then, with a cruel chuckle, she adds, "Most of all, of course, humiliating."

She runs her foot gently through my hair. God, I’m going to smell like her foot sweat when all of this is done. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out her words, but they worm their way into my brain nonetheless. Because she's undeniably right.

"This isn't just about you kissing my feet," Lucy continues, her voice growing softer, more contemplative. "It's about what it represents. You, humbling yourself before me. I like the way you put it. You are less, and I am more."

My face is squished in a foot sandwich right now. It’s insane that this is happening to me. I’m acting as a footrest for my ex-girlfriend. I can’t believe my friends used to ask me why I’d ever bother dating such a girl-failure like her. If they saw me now, they’d know the truth.

I’m the girl-failure.

"You know what the best part is?" she asks. "You're doing all this willingly. You broke up with me. You came crawling back. You’ve groveled and begged. And now, you're kissing my feet. No one forced you. This is all you, Marina. Don’t squirm, come on, breathe it in."

It was her words that made me involuntarily squirm, but it doesn’t last long. Her feet subdue me easily, one resting on my cheek, the other pressed firmly against my face.

I have no choice but to breathe in more of her musky foot scent as it fills my nostrils. To my profound shame, I feel a flicker of perverse arousal at it, at being so thoroughly put in my place. She’s a couch potato, and I’ve played volleyball all my life. I’m taller than her, stronger than her, and yet she’s easily reining me in like I’m squirming prey for her to claim.

"Do you know what that makes you?" Lucy asks, her voice soft and cruel.

I shake my head weakly. I can’t really speak, and even the gesture takes some effort, with her feet giving me so little wiggle room.

“A loser,” she says, spitting out the word like it’s full of poison. “A pathetic little desperate loser. You tried to run away – and failed. You tried to make it on your own – and failed. You tried to make me meet you halfway – and failed.”

I would almost physically recoil from what she’s saying… if she didn’t literally have me pinned to the ground.

"Now, tell me," she says, softly. "What are you?"

Her foot withdraws - not by much, just enough to allow me to speak freely. It’s close enough that it blocks my field of vision, looming over me. Still close enough that every breath carries wafts of her foot scent into my nostrils.

"It makes me a loser," I say. And I really am. Never before in my life have I felt so utterly defeated.

Defeated really is the right word. I am literally beneath her now, pinned under her foot like a conquered enemy, a vanquished foe. I never paid attention to history, but I’m sure she could point out historical examples of people that were defeated and turned into living footstools. Maybe an emperor? Is that an actual thing I’ve read somewhere?

"You know, I think I need to commemorate this moment," Lucy says suddenly. "Hold still."

The sound that follows is unmistakable. And terrifying.

It’s the shutter of a phone camera.

"Lucy!" I squeal, my voice high and thin with humiliation. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, just immortalizing this lovely little scene," she says casually, as if she's commenting on the weather. "I mean, it's not every day you get to see your ex-girlfriend so bravely proving her love."

I feel a surge of panic at the thought of that photo existing, of the possibility of it being shared, being seen by others. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to get up, to snatch the phone from her hands and delete the evidence of my shame.

But I don't move.

"P-please," I say, but before I can continue, her foot presses firmly against my lips, and all that comes out is a muffled sound. I shut up - no, more accurately, she shuts me up, with her foot no less, grinding my face into the floor.

Lucy speaks, but it's not the sneering demand I expected. Her tone is infuriatingly… patient. Patronising. Like that of a teacher when faced with a particularly slow pupil. Or maybe a dumb puppy.

"I already told you once not to insult my intelligence," she says. "You’re already kissing my feet. You’ve sworn to me that you will unconditionally accept my terms, if I’ll have you back. That’s how desperate you are. So let's drop the pretence that you’re gonna say no to a little photo now, mkay?"

I feel a hot flush of pure, raw, unfiltered humiliation spreading across my entire body. Her words sting like slaps, not because they're cruel, but because they're true. I've already debased myself more than I ever thought possible. I've already crossed lines I swore I would never cross. And she knows it. She's seen it.

This is an existential victory for her, isn't it?

A victory over me.

"You know what, Marina?" Lucy says, her voice suddenly softening, taking on a gentle, almost loving tone. "I think I've seen enough. I think you've proven yourself to me."

I freeze, hardly daring to breathe. Is this really happening? Is she really saying what I think she's saying?

“I will allow you to be my girlfriend again.”

I feel a shuddering spasm of arousal shoot through my core at the word allowed. My entire body tingles with a desperate, pathetic gratitude.

Lucy shifts her weight, pressing her feet more firmly against my face. The rough fabric of her socks chafes my skin as she grinds her soles into my cheeks, my nose, my lips. The scent of stale foot sweat is getting so intense, so acrid, that it’s making my eyes water. But I don't pull away. I don't even flinch. I just lay there, utterly still, letting her rub it in - both literally and metaphorically.

I’ll be allowed to be her girlfriend again.

In a way, it’s what I came here to accomplish. In another, it’s absolutely not that.

I can’t stop fixating on that word. Allowed. As if being with her is some kind of privilege, some rare honor that she's deigning to bestow upon me. As if I should be grateful - no, worshipful - that she's even considering taking me back after I had the audacity to leave her.

And the worst part is, I am grateful. I do feel worshipful. I feel like she's granting me a precious gift, a treasure beyond measure, by even entertaining the idea of letting me back into her life. What does that say about me?

Lucy keeps experimenting with her new squish toy - my face. She flexes her toes, digging them into my skin. She presses down with the heel, grinding it against my cheekbone. I let out a muffled whimper, equal parts humiliation and arousal.

"With that said, since I do care about you,” Lucy says from above me, "I want to make sure you really understand what you're agreeing to here, Marina. This isn’t a negotiation. It isn’t a compromise. If you come back, things will be the way they used to be… and then some. Your acceptance is unconditional. Do you truly grasp that?"

She shifts slightly, the weight of her foot moving to rest directly over my mouth and nose. I feel like there’s a message, here. In a normal, turn-taking conversation, this is where I would answer. But I can’t… not verbally, anyway.

I don’t dare move from beneath her feet, don’t dare give any indication of discomfort.

"It means," Lucy continues, "that I get to be my true self. You’re giving me the green light to behave however I see fit. Is that really what you want? Do you love me enough to live with that?"

I feel a traitorous thrill shiver through my body at her words. Lucy must sense it, must feel the way my body trembles beneath her feet, because she smiles down at me.

"That’s answer enough for me."

Despite my better judgement, despite every ounce of common sense telling me that I’m hurling my mental health and possibly more into the void just so I can feel the co-dependent feelings of affirmation again, I find myself nodding. A small, almost imperceptible movement, but it's enough. It's a silent acquiescence, a fateful acceptance of my new reality.

I submit.

She has won.

Lucy’s left foot nestles against the hollow of my throat. Her other foot climbs in the air, then comes down in a gentle arc towards my face. The last thing I see before the ball of her foot obscures my vision is her thoughtful expression - so beautiful - as she tilts her head in contemplation.

"You know," she muses aloud as every inch of her foot adheres to my face like a mask, "I really do wonder just how far I can take it…"