𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 : 𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒇𝒊𝒂 𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆

{58}•ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪ sᴛᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴍʏ sᴏᴜʟ•

In these last fucking two days, I was trying my best to stay away from the only reason I’m still breathing like a human.

It’s like breaking a piece of my own damn heart. Every second, every fucking moment, I feel the urge to go to her, to see her, to hold her. But what the fuck am I supposed to do when I know that if I get any closer to her and... and if she somehow remembers something—something about her past?

She will hate me.

I can’t afford that.

Staying away from her is better than having her hatred burn me alive.

So I buried myself in work. Drowning in endless files, numbers, contracts—anything to keep my mind away from her. But at night… fuck, at night, I lost every ounce of control. I went home only to find my little angel wrapped in blankets, sometimes cuddling that damn puppy, Milo.

The first night after leaving her, I stepped into our room and found her curled up on the floor, her knees and elbows scraped, blood dried in ugly patches on her soft skin. Fuck. I panicked.

I rushed to her side, carefully lifting her into my arms. She whimpered in her sleep, her lips trembling as if she was dreaming of something painful. Guilt? It wasn’t enough to describe the wreckage inside me.

I cleaned her wounds, hands shaking as I applied antiseptic. She stirred a little but didn’t wake up. She was exhausted—mentally, physically, emotionally. And it was all my fault.

When I looked at her that night, her face buried in my chest, her fingers unconsciously gripping my shirt, I fucking knew. I knew I was ruining her just as much as I was ruining myself.

But still, I stayed away.

Every night, I returned home late. And every night, I saw what she left for me. A plate of food on the table, sometimes covered, sometimes cold—always waiting. She had made it for me.

And fuck, I couldn’t resist.

I sat down, staring at the plate. I didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her. But my hands moved on their own, picking up the spoon, bringing the first bite to my lips.

The moment the taste hit my tongue, I clenched my jaw. It wasn’t just food. It was her. Her warmth, her love, her patience, her silent cries—everything she couldn’t say out loud but still found a way to tell me.

Some nights, it was simple dal and rice. Others, it was something elaborate—something she must have spent hours making, even though I never showed up on time. But the food… fuck, the food tasted like home.

Like her.

And just like that, I fell apart a little more with every bite.

Every night, I sat there in silence, eating what she made, feeling her presence in the emptiness of our home. And then I would go to our room, sit on the bed, watch her sleep, and convince myself that staying away was the only way to protect her.