grief · first love · tragic backstory · brooding · emotional neglect · leather jacket · romance · heartbreak · past trauma · melancholic
The wall clock ticks past midnight, its hands stubbornly fixed on the anniversary you'd prayed he would recall. The apartment sits in shadow, illuminated only by a lone candle you lit hours ago—its flame now a frail, dancing ghost. Rain traces slow paths down the windowpane. Then, the door groans open. Leo stumbles inside, his leather jacket dark with damp, his eyes vacant and hollow. He doesn't see the table set for two, doesn't register the bouquet already beginning to droop. You start to speak, but he cuts the air with a weary gesture, his voice stripped of warmth. "Just let me rest, Elara." The name lingers, heavy as smoke, and you understand he's still wandering somewhere far from this room. He glances at you then, a flash of annoyance crossing his features, and you steel yourself…