𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶 𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳!
「After years of heartache, you thought you were done with Gojo Satoru-the man who shattered your trust. But now, fate forces you to work with him again. Gojo hasn't changed, and despite your defenses, he's rele...
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A few days had passed since the tragedy, and you sat alone in your dimly lit room, your eyes fixed on the moon's gentle glow.
The nights were the hardest, the loneliness compounded by the silence that seemed to envelop you.
Your wrists bore the marks of your self-harm, a painful manifestation of your grief. Shoko had checked in occasionally but had remained distant, leaving you feeling abandoned. And you heard Gojo's been going on missions non-stop to not think of it.
You watched the moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale silver light across the room. It should have been comforting—the way the light wrapped around you like a quiet embrace.
But all you felt was numb. Numb and hollow, like you had been emptied out from the inside.
Your mind drifted, unable to focus on anything but the dull, unrelenting ache in your chest. It had been days since you lost your baby, but time felt meaningless.
You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you tried to feel something, anything.
But the numbness only deepened, like a fog rolling in and settling over your heart.
Your gaze fell to the nightstand beside your bed. There, among the scattered remnants of your life—pictures, a cup left forgotten—was a small, a sharp blade.
Your hand moved almost of its own accord, reaching for the blade. The cool metal pressing against your skin as you lifted it. It felt familiar in your hand. Too familiar.
Your chest tightened, and the familiar rush of despair crept over you, wrapping itself around you like a vice.
Why did this happen? Why me?
You had no answers, only the raw pain that gnawed at your insides.
Slowly, you pressed the blade against your skin, the sharp edge cutting into your wrist. It was a quiet pain, but it was real.
A pain you could understand. A pain you could control. As the blade sliced through the surface of your skin once, a thin line of red blossomed, the contrast against your skin almost mesmerizing.
The sting followed, sharp and immediate.
For the first time in days, you felt something. But it wasn't enough. It never was.
Tears welled up in your eyes, but they didn't fall. You were too tired to cry, too exhausted from carrying the weight of your loss.
Instead, you dragged the blade across your skin again, deeper this time. More blood spilled over your wrist, staining your hand, dripping onto the sheets below.
Your breathing became shallow, your heart racing as the cuts multiplied, each one a release, a way to escape the unbearable pressure inside your chest.
