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"Where have you been? Do you know if you're coming back? We were too close to the stars I never knew somebody like you, somebody Falling just as hard I'd rather lose somebody than use somebody Maybe it's a blessing in disguise (I sold my soul for you) I see my reflection in your eyes (tell me you see it too) So close, so close Yet so far away (so far)"
𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓
Juliette's room is as boring as I expected.
There's nothing of note here—just bare essentials, a blandness that feels more clinical than personal. The room is empty in every sense of the word. The bed is messy and unmade, the doors to her armoire hanging open, the broken window temporarily taped shut. But I didn't expect anything else. It doesn't matter. She doesn't matter—not to me, at least.
Juliette Ferrars was an experiment, a project I inherited. A responsibility I'll deal with when the time comes. Her escape was a breach of protocol, an annoyance. Her absence is an inconvenience, nothing more.
And yet, as I stand here, staring at the blankness of it all, I feel her.
Arabella.
It's all I can do.
It's maddening how she haunts me, even in places that have nothing to do with her. She's everywhere, in everything. In the faint hum of electricity running through the walls. She's in the brush of cold air against my skin, sharp enough to wake me but soft enough to make me yearn for more. She's in the way shadows stretch across walls, always shifting, always just beyond my grasp. She's in the weight of my own heartbeat, relentless and traitorous, reminding me that I am still here, that I still feel. She's in the very air I breathe.
She's nowhere—and yet she's everywhere. I only wish I could see her and not only feel her.
It's absurd, irrational, and infuriating. I know it's my mind playing tricks on me, my own guilt and longing twisting reality into something unrecognizable. Her presence has seeped into my bones, so deeply rooted that I carry it with me wherever I go.
I shake my head, as if the motion might dislodge her from my thoughts, and focus on the task at hand. I'm here for a reason, though I'm not entirely sure why anymore.
My hands move absently, brushing over surfaces, pulling open drawers. But my thoughts spiral back to her. Always to her.
I curse under my breath and slam a drawer shut. I should hate her. I should despise her for what she's done, for the lies, the betrayal, the way she made me believe in something that was never real. But I can't. Because every memory of her feels real. Every moment, every glance, every word. I only wish it were, but reality hits harder.
