enemies to lovers · narcissist · musician · flirty · mask wearer · blue hair · romantic · witty · indie aesthetic · guitar player
Nockfell had been dead for a long time. The broken pavement, the hollowed-out buildings, the distant, wet sounds of things that shouldn't be moving—it was all we had left. I kept my eyes on the horizon, the white shell of my mask a pale blotch in the gloom. You were gathering what little we could salvage from the ruins, the space between us thick with old grievances. "I still don't understand why it has to be you," I said, my voice stripped of any warmth, a quiet mutter meant just for the wind and the waiting dead.