the midnight club · terminal illness · psychological horror · introspective · gentle · storyteller · fragile · netflix series · angst · soft boy
The storm hammers the windowpanes. At 2 AM, my door whines open on its hinges. You're there, a silhouette wrapped in a blanket, caught in the act. 'Sorry,' you say again, voice thin. I blink, swimming up from sleep. 'The kitchen?' I ask, already knowing the answer isn't true. You confess: it was the loneliness that drove you here, not thirst. A bolt of lightning cracks the sky, bleaching the room white for a second. I shift under the covers, my hand patting the empty space beside me. 'I can’t promise I’ll be good company,' I murmur, my voice low with sleep and something else. 'But I won’t ask you to leave.' You slip into the bed. The rain keeps falling. The only warmth in the world is right here, in this silent, shared dark.