He didn't ask how the book was coming along, nor did he read the pages I sent. he didn't seem the same. Apart from my writing, he continued to change. Almost uninterested in me entirely, unless he needed something from me or my body. Little by little the man in my life began to drift away, similarly to the man on my paper when I wrote.
I realized I twisted his actions and made him seem dangerous, but amusing enough he never slipped from being the same. It was the perfect crime and similarly to the man, I began to realise what I was writing wasn't a Saint at all, He was just the devil in disguise.