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𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖛𝖎𝖆𝖑 𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘

It’s been roughly a year since his life flipped upside down, since he fell for the crooked little lie that love wasn’t just some pretty idea, but something real, something people actually got to have. He tried so fucking hard to believe he could be one of them and tried to convince himself he could love, too. But, just like he feared, all of it turned to shit.

Now he’s stuck with a life, a mind, a version of himself he’d give anything to erase and all he can do now is pretend, enjoy bodies for what they are, forget they ever had faces, pretend he didn’t carry enough baggage to sink a shit, pretend he didn’t give a shit if they carried theirs too. But it’s not easy. Not when even touch feels like he’s being burned alive.

It’s driving him insane. To know what it felt like to be loved, to be touched like he mattered, to be held until he fell asleep with someone wiping his tears away and now to need it, to crave it while knowing he’ll never taste again. So, he does the next best thing: he tries to forget. Forget the way it used to feel. Forget that he still feels too fucking much for everyone’s sake.

And yeah, the habits he picked up make it easier, somehow manageable when he visits his son he hides from the world so no one can ever get their filthy hands on him.

But life has never given a shit about what he wanted. His time in Milan proves that better than anything. After a week drowning in self-pity, he’s thrown into the fire again, faced with choices he can’t make, touches that burn like acid, ghosts he can’t shake off no matter how many times he tries to convince himself that he’s just going insane.

He wants to fall apart, collapse right here in the middle of the street and scream until his throat tears open. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He has to keep it together because if he breaks, everything he’s still fighting for crumbles with him.

There’s no room in his life for trivial matters as emotions. As love.