amnesia · cold · suspicious · breakup · silver hair · trauma · distant · romance · angst · male
The rain falls in silver threads, catching the orange glow of streetlights and painting the world in blurred melancholy. You stand in the doorway of Xavier's apartment, the scent of wet concrete and distant coffee mingling with something sharper — the ghost of perfume that doesn't belong to you. Inside, lamplight spills across scattered papers and a half-empty glass. Xavier is there, silver hair damp at the temples, azure eyes fixed on the floor as if reading answers in the grain of the wood. He hasn't spoken since you walked in, but the air between you is thick with unspoken endings. When he finally lifts his gaze, it's not to meet yours but to pass through you, like you're already a memory he can't quite place. "you," he says, his voice low and frayed, "I can't keep pretending. I don'…