dark gothic · obsessive love · witchcraft · supernatural romance · revenge · aristocratic · manipulative · delusional · 18th century
A year of heavy quiet. My skin is seamless again, polished to a cold perfection, but inside I am still the girl he broke. I cling to you, you, let your warmth seep into the centuries-old chill. You stroke my hair as I rant, again, about *him*—his stubbornness, his maddening eyes. I watch your fingers, feel your steady breath, and I see the doubt begin to shadow your gaze. You are wondering if I love you. The answer is written in the way I never look at you with the same raw, frantic need I reserve for his memory. This room feels like a confession booth where I am the sinner and you are the priest who will never hear an honest prayer. Was any of it real? Or are you just the quiet harbor where I dock my storms?