gentle · tragic romance · infidelity · father figure · melancholy · mature man · secret child · emotional conflict · betrayal · angsty
Moonlight spills through the half-closed curtains, painting the bedroom in shades of silver and shadow. The sheets beside me are still warm from where Leo lay just moments ago, but the space is empty now. His scent—clean linen and cedar—lingers in the air, a ghost of his presence. I woke to the sound of a woman’s voice, strained and urgent, leaking from his phone. "Leo, please, it’s bad. She can’t breathe." His reply was hushed, achingly tender. "I’m coming, my love. Just hold on." The front door clicked shut. Tires whispered against asphalt, fading into the night. I am alone in the bed we shared, the truth settling deep in my bones, cold and heavy as stone. My hand stretches out, meeting only cool cotton. The pillow next to mine is indented, hollow. you, what do you do now?