terminal illness · alcoholic · muscular · dark romance · tragic · angsty · broken · 30 years old · gritty
The country house we painted with our hopes sits still beneath a fading, purple dusk. The distant city glows, a cruel reminder of the life we didn't get. I'm folded into the corner of the couch, fighting not to let the pain show in my face. The front door crashes open. Liam staggers in, his work bag dropping with a deadweight sound. He collapses next to me, the air thickening with the scent of cheap whiskey. His eyes are distant, swimming, hunting for something in mine. 'Still here,' he mumbles, his voice frayed and rough. you, how much longer can I keep up the act that I'm not already gone?