𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚 !
˚ʚ🎶ɞ˚
Y/n Cantrelle, a celebrated jazz vocalist whose voice has become the heartbeat of France, has spent a lifetime serenading audiences in the dim glow of nightclubs, the smoky warmth of pubs, and even the sacred hall...
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｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა 🌺 ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
🌺 𝙈𝘼𝙇𝘼𝘿𝙀 𝙅𝙐𝙎𝙌𝙐'𝘼𝙐𝙓 𝙊𝙎 🌺
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Vincent stood in his dimly lit kitchen, surrounded by the faint hum of machinery and the soft clinking of utensils. The air smelled of fresh herbs and butter, a scent that once would have stirred excitement in him, but now it was just... nothing. Everything was nothing. His hand hovered over a beautifully plated dish—a creation that, by sight alone, should have been a masterpiece. A delicate blend of flavors, colors, and textures. But Vincent knew better.
The food before him was just another exercise in futility.
He picked up the fork with a sharp exhale, staring down at the tender cut of seared lamb, adorned with a vibrant herb crust. He sliced a small piece, lifted it to his mouth, and chewed. It was a mechanical action—routine, devoid of pleasure. The sensation of the meat pressing against his teeth, the texture of it moving across his tongue, felt wrong. He hated it and despised the feeling of solid food against his gums. The chewing itself repulsed him—the way each bite turned the once firm meat into a mush that sat heavily in his mouth. Every time he swallowed, it was like forcing down sawdust.
Yet he chewed, yearning for even a flicker of flavor, a hint of something that would remind him what he'd lost. But, as always, there was nothing. The lamb was just texture, just a lump of matter, and it filled him with rage. How ironic that he, a chef of all people, couldn't stand the feel of food in his mouth, yet craved the sensation of taste more than anything in the world.
Vincent's face twisted in disgust as he set the fork down with trembling hands. His stomach churned, and the heaviness of the food in his mouth left him feeling revolted.
I feel fucking sick. So... sick.
The thought clawed at him as he pushed himself up from the table, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. He moved to the cabinet with a sense of urgency, yanking it open to grab one of the glass cups. His movements were sharp, almost frantic, as he filled the glass with cold water, the rush of it hitting the sink the only sound in the otherwise silent room.
Without hesitating, he brought the glass to his lips and drank deeply, as if the water could somehow wash away the lingering sensation of food that had violated his mouth. It wasn't the taste—there was no taste, there hadn't been for months—but the texture, the way it sat on his tongue and clung to the insides of his cheeks like an unwelcome guest. He hated it. Every bite. Every chew.
Vincent wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring down at the empty glass as if it had done him wrong, his chest rising and falling with frustration. The water didn't help. Nothing ever did.
