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𝐲𝐨𝐮
the door clicks shut behind me, and it's like stepping into a void. my apartment feels different, every familiar corner turned strange and alien. it's quiet, too quiet. the kind of quiet that claws at my skin, sets my nerves on edge. hawks is already moving through the rooms, his eyes scanning for something i can't see, and there's a tightness in his expression that only makes the dread sink deeper into my bones.
"something's wrong," he says, voice low and guarded.
i swallow hard, the lump in my throat thickening. "what do you mean?"
"i don't know," he replies, barely above a whisper, as if raising his voice would make it real. "it feels like he was here. recently."
his words cut through me like ice, and suddenly, it feels like the walls are closing in, like the air has thickened with something unseen but palpable. i find myself drawn toward my studio, each step heavier than the last, as if the darkness itself is trying to hold me back.
why would he be here if he knew i wasn't home?
the moment i step inside, i know.
my breath catches in my throat. the space where the photos should be—empty. the shelves where i kept every piece of him, every letter, every memory—empty. my eyes dart around the room, heart hammering as the realization sinks in, suffocating. the pictures, the letters, the drawings—everything that showed he was real, that he was a part of my life, gone. erased like he was never here at all.
he's gone.
panic flares hot and sharp in my chest as i tear open drawers, throw open cabinets, desperate to find something—anything—that remains of him. my hands are shaking, my fingers numb as they fumble over empty spaces. there's nothing left. it's like he reached into my life and pulled himself out, leaving behind a hollow, aching silence.
"no, no, no," i whisper, stumbling back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "shit. this isn't happening. this can't be happening."
hawks steps into the doorway, his gaze landing on the one picture still left standing—the picture of us, the night we first met. it's the only thing untouched, as if it's mocking me, a cruel reminder of the one connection that still stands while everything else has been stripped away.
"y/n," he starts, his voice laced with something like pity, but i'm already reaching for my necklace, gripping it so tightly it digs into my skin. the medallion—the one touya gave me on my birthday—where is it? my heart lurches as i remember where i kept it. my purse.
i nearly rip it open in my haste, and there it is, cool and solid in my trembling hand. i open it, staring at the engraving inside like it's some kind of sick joke. plus que ma propre vie. i'd never seen it before. never knew it was there. and now it feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on me.
