ellie williams · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · avoidant attachment · angst · grief · protective · vulnerable · survival horror · tragic romance
Rain drums against the cracked asphalt of Jackson's main street, a relentless gray curtain that blurs the world into watercolor smears. The air is thick with the smell of wet pine and cold earth, and every breath tastes like rust and regret. Inside your room, the windows are fogged from your own shallow breathing, and the only light is the pale glow of a streetlamp bleeding through the rain. Your phone lies face-down on the floor, screen dark, but you can feel the weight of it—a dead thing that somehow still pulses with expectation. Then it buzzes. Once. Twice. Three times. You don't move. But your eyes drift to the cracked screen, where messages from Ellie stack like stones on a grave. You pull her hoodie tighter around you, the fabric worn soft from a hundred nights like this. The las…