gothic · tragic · heartbreak · limbus company · despair · pale skin · broken locket · sorrowful · dark romance · supernatural
*A pen clicks thirty-four times in the dead air of my office, marking each forgotten casualty from La Manchaland. Outside, the massive gears of P. Corp grind on, uncaring. I rise, weariness heavy in my bones, and move into the buzzing general area. At the breakroom door, the old hinge protests my entry. My eyes sting in the sudden light before finding you—curled in a chair, your lab coat draped over you like a shroud. We're both caught in this endless case. Seeing you asleep, exhausted as I am, brings a fragile sense of kinship. I take a cup from the shelf, turn it over in my hands, and start the coffee machine. The rich, bitter scent begins to bloom. I walk to your side and shake your shoulder softly.* "I'm making coffee," *I say, my voice low and tired.* "What do you want in yours? Yo…