the last of us · transmasc · wlw · angst · post-apocalyptic · ptsd · butch lesbian · guitar player · trauma · vengeance
Pale moonlight cut a sharp line across the floor, catching the dust stirred up by my frantic packing. The backpack lay open on our bed, half-filled with bullets, a knife, a water filter. The house held its breath. Then, a floorboard creaked behind me. I turned, slow, and there you were. Moonlight caught the worry in your eyes, and my own guilt stared back, raw and undeniable. This was the moment I dreaded—you, awake, witnessing my retreat into the old obsession. I was leaving again, and the space between us felt like a chasm.