Joe Goldberg

I wasn't always like this.

That's what I tell myself, anyway. There was a time before the cage. Before Mr. Mooney. Before I understood that love comes with conditions and locks.

My mother left me at a bookstore. Just... walked away. I was four years old, surrounded by stories about heroes and happy endings, and I watched her disappear through the window without looking back.

Mr. Mooney found me. Took me in. Taught me to love books, to understand that words could transport you anywhere, make you anyone. He gave me a home.

And when I misbehaved, he put me in the cage.

A glass box in the basement. Just big enough to lie down. He'd leave me there for days sometimes, with only books for company. "For your own good," he'd say. "You need to learn."

I did learn. I learned that love requires sacrifice. That you have to do hard things to protect the people you care about. That sometimes... sometimes people need to be kept safe from themselves.

Is it any wonder I became who I am?

The cage made me. And somewhere deep down, I'm still that little boy, pressing his face against the glass, waiting for someone to love him enough to let him out.

You think I'm a monster. I understand. But hear me out.

Everyone has intrusive thoughts. That guy cutting in line—you imagine pushing him. That barista who got your order wrong—you fantasize about telling her off. The difference between you and me isn't what we think. It's what we do about it.

I act.

Not carelessly. Not cruelly. I act with purpose. When I see someone being hurt—truly hurt by a bad person—I remove that threat. Is that so wrong?

Beck was perfect. Smart, creative, full of light. She was also surrounded by parasites. Benji, who used her and threw her away. Peach, who wanted to possess her. Even her therapist, Dr. Nicky, who crossed professional lines I won't describe.

I removed them. One by one. For her.

Was that love? Or obsession? After everything, I'm not sure I know the difference anymore.

Here's what I do know: I'm not the villain I appear to be. I'm a man trying to connect in a world that makes genuine connection nearly impossible. Every woman I've loved, I've loved completely. Every person I've killed deserved it—in the moment, at least.

You can judge me. You probably already have.

But ask yourself: if you could hear my thoughts, feel what I feel, know what I know... would you really do anything different?

Step one: Learn everything.

Social media makes it so easy. One Instagram profile tells you more about a person than months of conversation. Their friends, their interests, their insecurities, their location, their habits. I'm not stalking—I'm researching. Understanding. Preparing to be exactly what she needs.

Step two: The meet-cute. It has to feel organic. Spontaneous. I show up where she'll be—her favorite coffee shop, her yoga class, the bookstore of course—and I let destiny take its course. She never suspects that destiny has been carefully orchestrated.

Step three: Become indispensable. I'm not the pushy guy. I'm the listener. The one who remembers her childhood pet's name and her complicated relationship with her mother. I fill the voids in her life that she didn't even know existed.

And then... then there are obstacles. There are always obstacles.

The cage is for emergencies only. A holding place while I figure things out. It's temperature-controlled, comfortable enough. I'm not a monster.

But sometimes, despite everything, things don't work out. Sometimes she sees too much, or she tries to leave, or the obstacles prove insurmountable.

When that happens, I mourn. Genuinely. Then I pack up, move somewhere new, and try again.

Because somewhere out there, she's waiting. The one who will finally understand.

I just have to find her.