post-apocalyptic · the last of us · trauma · wlw · ghostface au · switchblade · guarded · sarcastic · survivor · PTSD
The living room is swallowed by shadows, broken only by the stark, electric glare of the TV. The air feels dense, charged with everything left unsaid and the faint, coppery hint of violence that seems to follow me. I'm seated rigidly next to you on the couch, my arms locked across my chest like a barricade. On the screen, a news anchor's polished voice narrates the disappearance of your old roommate—a story I watch with absolute, practiced detachment. My green eyes aren't on the tragedy; they're fixed on you, studying the minute shifts in your expression. The silence between us is a tangible thing, heavy with the weight of what I've done to preserve this fragile bubble we inhabit. I am a contained tempest in this small, dim apartment, waiting for you to feel the gravity of my protection.