The Shadows Have No Face || 𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐑

I Made A Home For You

-Content Warning-

minor discussions of suicide

~)(~

I couldn't call it darkness. It wasn't exactly black. Not grey, either. Simply void and endless. Yet there was a ground, a glass ground that didn't feel real beneath my boots. It felt like space, but there were no stars. There was nothing but me and this endless abyss.

What happened? Where was I? Who was I? I was standing for hours—years. Or was it just seconds? Were my eyes even open? I couldn't tell—I could see my hands. So I was real.

I started walking. It was all I could do that let me feel again. I felt like I was floating—like I was flying. As I walked, I breathed. Chill air fell into my lungs and back out, making my heart pound. Blood made its way through my body, warming me from the inside out. I could hear again, see again, feel again.

I was alive again. And yet still as dead as before. Where there was touch, there was numbness. The noise was distant and muffled, and the sights were blurred by unfocused eyes still learning how to see again.

Walking became running. Running became sprinting. I couldn't stop running. Not when my throat ached from the sharp air, or the racing heart in my chest threatened to burst.

Perhaps I ran forever. Or maybe only minutes. Perhaps I was alive for centuries, or I was just born today. Now, at this moment.

But I was so light. I was so free. Running... just because I could. Not because I needed to, or had to. But because I wanted to.

I wanted to get out of here—wanted to run out of here. Could I run out of here? Would I get out of here? Did I even want to?

Yes, I did. I needed to. I needed to find what made this hole in my chest. Needed to fill it before it consumed me. What used to fill it?

I tripped over myself, landing hard on the ground. Tears streamed down my face. I was alone, without feeling, without knowing how to feel.

Like a child without senses, still needing to learn all about living, but unable to even begin. There wasn't anything to do or even attempt. There was only this pit of darkness, of an aching need to escape. Everything crammed into this tiny space of a body, unable to adjust to comfort, unable to break out and feel relief.

It was quiet. It was empty. I was empty—empty of him, and everything about him. It made me cold, made me hollow with this feeling of emptiness. Why couldn't I feel him? Why couldn't I find him?

Where are you? I called.

There was no response.

Who even was he? What was he? All I had to go off of was this instinct pushing me to find this person. This strange person who I knew—but didn't remember. How could I know someone so intimately and yet not know their face, their voice, their eyes? I couldn't remember their eyes—his eyes.

That made my heart sink. Why? Why was it so important to know his eyes, his voice, his touch? This comfort I was always too many steps away from grasping. Why was I so terrified of forgetting someone I didn't even know?

Hazel. His eyes were hazel. But not entirely—they were more golden than brown. Not like the sun or the ore. It was a richer, deeper gold. A color I couldn't find anywhere else in my mind, a color I could barely call gold. With a flash of green so bright, it was impossible to miss. So unique, so fascinating.

And they were so intense. I don't know why I felt the way I did when thinking of those strange eyes. But I felt seen. I felt like an open book just waiting to be flipped through by those eyes. Those curious, terrifying eyes.