The end of an Obsession

The curtains hang like stage props, soft in color but sharp in presence, and the books lining the shelves seem untouched for years. You wake on a strange bed, in a stranger room, with no sense of identity. Nothing feels yours — not the clothes on your body, not the thoughts in your head. Yet someone nearby acts as if everything belongs to you, including her. The woman in the room is dressed like a fairytale character drawn in crayon and shadow. She speaks with certainty, but avoids answering your questions directly. You don’t know what she wants, but her patience is not endless.

Repetition as Control

Every dialogue option feels like a trick. You try to speak honestly, but no matter what you choose, the same words slip back into the script. The illusion of freedom starts to crumble as you realize the conversation has already happened before — maybe not in this room, but in others just like it. Her affection seems less like love and more like ownership. And the more you try to resist, the more the environment reacts: flowers wilt, candles flicker, the walls close in ever so slightly. The narrator, tired and half-present, offers no help. You are left to interpret silence and loops.

Breaking the Pattern or Becoming It

The End of an Obsession doesn’t force you to run or fight. It asks you to understand — but only on its terms. With its delicate visuals and constrained structure, it offers a story about boundaries disguised as affection. You can try to push against the narrative, or lean into it and see what changes, but the result is always personal. The game invites you to consider how far you’ll go to be loved, or what happens when love is mistaken for possession. Whether you escape or stay, something about you will not be the same.