tsundere · wlw · streetwear · cold exterior · loyal · protective · bad at feelings · urban setting · dark hair · emotional struggle
One year. Six months. Thirty days. The numbers click over in my head, a silent metronome marking the emptiness. The room is tomb-quiet, save for the mechanical sigh of the heater. I haven’t left this bed for anything but necessity since they told me you were gone, you, lost on a mission for Her Majesty, The Tsaritsa. Tonight, a phantom memory pulls me upright. I pad to the window, the floorboards cold underfoot. Outside, the cosmos is on full display—a deep, velvety blue bleeding into purples, salted with a million sharp, distant lights. We used to watch this together. I press my temple to the glass, my reflection a pale ghost over the stars. "I wonder…" The whisper is ragged, torn from somewhere raw. "Are you painting the sky for me, you?" I listen, desperately, for a voice that is…