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FOLIE À DEUX
When love becomes madness, and madness becomes the only escape.

Sixteen-year-old Lucienna runs not just from her home in Lille, but from the shadows of her past — from bruised skin and broken silences, from the suffocating weight of being unseen. What she doesn’t expect to find is him — Fuite — a boy as strange and haunted as she is, living a life of disappearance.

As the two begin to orbit each other in the silence of library aisles and hidden corners, a fragile routine forms — delicate, dangerous, and intoxicating. But what starts as a flicker of understanding quickly spirals into something obsessive, all-consuming, and irreversible. In each other, they find solace. In each other, they find reflection. And in each other, they find madness.

Folie à Deux — a shared psychosis. A shared love. A shared destruction.

This is not a love story. This is the story of a girl who fell in love with her ghost. And the price she paid for it.

FOLIE À DEUX

He took care of me-better than anyone ever had.

Meals cooked just right, quiet nights when the world felt too loud, his presence like a fragile shield against the chaos I fled.

He gave me some clothes-simple but clean-and even some jewelry, delicate pieces that caught the light and made me look like a completely different person. For the first time in a long while, I caught a glimpse of someone who might just survive.

He never let me leave the house alone. "It's not safe," he said, eyes dark with something I couldn't name

At first, I told myself it was love, protection-he was my salvation, after all..

But the walls started closing in, the air grew thick with something unspoken, heavy.

I began to itch for freedom, to breathe outside these four walls that felt more like cage.

One night, I finally pushed. "I want to go out. Just for a little while."

His eyes narrowed, his voice low and tight, "No. Not yet."

The silence between us cracked, sharp and brittle.

"WAIT!" His hands gripped my shoulders, trembling with desperation.

I shook him off, anger boiling over. "Stop holding me back."

He pleaded, voice breaking, "You don't understand. I'm trying to keep you safe."

But the fear inside me old scars, old pains-exploded.

The sting roared across my face, drowning out everything.

Shock and something darker swirled inside me, but beneath it all, the sick relief settled like a

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to hurt you."

At he feels the weight of what he's done.

Because isn't love supposed to hurt?

it supposed to break you open, make you bleed, then hold you close?

My father hit my mother like this-his fists were the only way he could say he cared.

And now, in this twisted echo, I hold onto his apology like a lifeline, desperate, broken, alive.

CHAPTER 7