A.N : so I'm alive?
The room is quiet now.
Not peaceful —quiet.
Like the breath held before a scream, or the silence after a bomb.
She's under the covers, knees curled in close, arms wrapped around her own ribs like she's afraid she'll spill open if she let's go. Her skin is flushed with the memory of touch, but her eyes— her eyes were rimmed in red, not from pleasure, but from the ache that came after.
The sheets rustled as he turned over. He's already asleep. Not a glance back.
Not a whisper of "Are you okay?"
Not a hint of "Did I go too far?"
She waits.
One breath. Two.
Still nothing.
She should be used to this—this pattern where someone uncovers all her soft places only to vanish the moment they feel real. But it still stings. Every time. Like ripping open stitches that never got the chance to heal right.
The worst part isn't the breaking. She chose the breaking. She offered it, gift-wrapped in trust.
No—the worst part is that he left the wreckage behind, untouched.
No aftercare. No comfort. No reaching out to cradle what he shattered.
If you tear someone down and not stay to soothe what's left, then did you ever want the person? Or just the power?
She sits in the quiet, realization curling bitter in her throat like smoke.
She'll learn. Eventually.
But not today. Today, the ache is still fresh. The silence is still loud. And some wounds needs to scab before they can be touched. Not that anyone was lining up to touch her.
Least of all him.