Park Jimin one of the powerful, wealthiest men in whole europe got a power to bend down the whole universe infront of him on its knees but when the most powerful men in whole europe goes on his knees just to save his family, just to save his love an...
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"DON'T LOOSE YOU HEART MY BABY".
These five words echoed in the back of her head on a loop. She never understood the real meaning of them before—but now she did. She knew exactly what he meant by those words now. She shouldn't lose her heart. She really should hold on.
But...Somewhere deep inside her, something dark and dirty had taken root. Something monstrous. Something that clawed through the soft flesh of who she used to be. It wasn't a voice. It wasn't even a feeling. It was a presence—something crawling just under her skin, whispering in a language only her bones could hear. Something that made her want to crawl out of her own body.
She couldn't explain it. There was no language for this kind of erosion. No words that could carry the weight of this. No matter how many times she cleaned her skin. No matter how much she scrubbed. No matter how hot the water ran or how long she stood under it— the handprints were still there.
Invisible, but real. She couldn't see them, but God, she could feel them. With shaking fingers, she applied some tint on her dry, chapped lips, just something to moisten them. The small, mundane act felt mechanical, meaningless. She picked up the brush and ran it through her hair. Her long, soft hair.
It had grown long. He had touched it. His fingers— filthy and unwanted had tangled in it. She could still feel them, even now. A shiver crawled up her spine like frostbite. She set the brush down on the counter with a soft click. Her hand opened the drawer almost unconsciously, pulling out the cold metal scissors tucked beneath an old scarf.
The moment her fingers wrapped around the handle, her lungs gave a stuttering gasp. The scissors were cold. Too cold. She stared into the mirror at herself, or what was left of her. Not the woman she used to be. Not the mother. Not the wife.
Just... the aftermath. Her gaze dropped to her hair again. The hair he touched. Her favorite part of herself— he had ruined that too. Her grip tightened. The last time she'd cut her hair was when her son died. And today she died. She gathered a thick handful and bunched it to the side, staring at it like it was something foreign.
Her breathing was shallow, erratic. Her chest rising too fast. Her mouth trembling with the pressure of unshed screams.
Suhani- Just cut it... just end it.
She whispered aloud to herself, voice thin and shaking. Her fingers found the blades. She clicked them open— a soft, metallic snap and paused.Then— Snip.
A long, black lock fell to the white floor like a silent scream. And with it, something inside her cracked. Her breath faltered. Her vision blurred. A tightness gripped her chest like an invisible hand was squeezing her lungs, refusing to let them fill. Still, she didn't stop. She grabbed another handful. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.
Her hair fell like feathers. Like ashes. A cry curled up her throat, but it stayed trapped—like her breath. Her hands shook violently, the scissors slipped from her fingers and clattered against the porcelain sink. The sound felt thunderous in the silence.
