✧･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 precise toll was a ridiculous, self-inflicted torture: 4 months, 11 days, 56 minutes, 2 seconds.
I had counted every single one, not with the dry precision of a clock, but with the raw, visceral ache of a wound that refused to scar. Each tick was a small, insistent reminder of the moment I had become the villain in her beautiful, honest story.
The rain poured down in relentless sheets against the reinforced glass of the safe house, each drop a cold, stinging reminder of the storm raging within my heart. I stood at the edge of the door, my leather jacket, soaked through, clung to my muscular body, but I barely noticed the cold. My mind, usually a fortress of cold logic, was consumed by her thoughts only—the memory of her departing gaze, devoid of the familiar warmth, filled instead with that devastating, annihilating contempt.
I closed the door on the roaring city and walked into the sterile quiet of my self-imposed prison. I peeled off the soaked leather, the sudden absence of the cold intensifying the emotional chill I carried inside. Changing into my casual clothes—a heavy, comfortless grey sweater and dark trousers—I felt the familiar, heavy weight of the void.
I sat in front of the lamp, its light focused solely on a single, framed photograph. It was our engagement photo: Ada's hand resting gently on my chest, the diamond catching the light, her smile luminous, genuine, filled with a promise of forever that I had ruthlessly aborted.
I had left her. It was the hardest decision I had ever made, yet I still believed it was the only right one. My world was a dark and dangerous place, a labyrinth filled with shadows that could swallow the light of her innocence whole. I couldn't bear the thought of her getting hurt because of me, of her being used as a pawn in the Vulture's game. But the irony was a crushing weight I carried in my lungs: by leaving, by trying to protect her, I had hurt her the most profoundly.
I closed my eyes, and her face appeared in my mind's theatre, vividly real—her warm, brownish orbs that saw through my walls, her infectious smile that could silence the chaos of my mind, the way she laughed at my stupid jokes even when they didn't make any sense.
