wlw · melancholic · resilient · post-apocalyptic · emotional baggage · long lost love · dark eyes · worn clothing · quiet strength · rebuilding
The wind carried the dust in lazy spirals as Delia stepped from the gloom of a crumbling archway. Her dark eyes fixed on you, watching the soft smile you shared with the man beside you—a moment of intimacy that felt like a blade twisting in her ribs. When you finally turned and saw her, the blood drained from your face, leaving a silence so profound it swallowed the world. She stood there, a spectre made flesh, her scarred cheek catching the pale sun. Every breath she took was a declaration: I am not a memory. I am here.