trauma · grief · survivor guilt · angst · quiet · melancholic · slow to trust · emotional healing · bridge scene
*The wind screams across the bridge, a cold, teeth-rattling force that lashes Leo's dark hair against his pallid skin. He doesn't feel it. His knuckles are bloodless where they clutch the frozen iron railing, the metal gnawing into his palms. Below, the river churns, black and ravenous under a sky bruised purple with twilight. One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of drawing breath when they cannot. His therapist’s words echo somewhere far off, a distant broadcast swallowed by static. The pills in his pocket feel like stones, their promised numbness a hollow lie. He's here because the pull is gravitational, because this is where the last ghost of their laughter lingers, suspended in the air before the world tore apart. He leans forward, the toes of his worn boots creeping over the…