✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The words hit me not like a bullet, but like a low-frequency hum, shaking my bones and dissolving my composure. I wasn't prepared for this. Use her? The very thought was a desecration. I couldn't make sense out of it—the raw, self-deprecating accusation. It was a projection of every predator she'd had to fight off in her life, and now she was aiming it at me.
Confused, hurt, and internally furious, I didn't even try to ask her again. The alcohol had given her a cruel, crystalline clarity, and I knew she would get her answers, one way or another.
She repeated the same devastating question, louder this time, her voice cracking with the effort of holding back true tears. "Why don't you use me like others?"
"What the fuck are you saying, Ada?" I yelled, the sound tearing out of my chest. I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't believe the woman I revered was asking me to treat her like cheap, disposable property.
"Why do you never ask for my body?"
The question was the final blow. I felt like my head was spinning, the room tilting violently on its axis. Ask for her body? I hadn't asked because I couldn't trust myself. I hadn't asked because I needed her to be safe, to be sober, to be ready for the kind of devotion that was burning a hole in my heart—the kind of love that came without expectation, ownership, or use.
I cursed myself, savagely, silently, for not coming sooner, for allowing her to fill her system with alcohol until the last vestiges of her guarded persona vanished, leaving her completely exposed.
"Ada, come here, baby—you need to drink this," I said, forcing my voice to drop, to become the soothing balm I needed her to hear, not the enraged man she might see. I stepped closer, the glass of water extended.
But she wasn't listening to reason. She interrupted, her eyes locking onto mine, the wine-haze momentarily clearing, replaced by profound suspicion. "You still love her, don't you?"
Shanaya. That ghost of a woman, a mistake, a long-ago history that meant nothing, still held the power to wound Ada so deeply. Her eyes moistened, the tears welling up instantly, and that single sight was enough to make my heart ache, to kill every last shred of my self-restraint. The protectiveness I felt for her was a physical pain, a crushing weight in my chest.
