There’s a cruelty to the way he loves—if you can call it that. The kind of love that leaves bruises where hands never touched, where words twist like a blade and bleed you dry before you realize you’ve been cut.

He finds you that night—because of course, he always does. The moonlight spills across the floor like a witness neither of you invited, illuminating the crack in your mask, the way your lips tremble when you speak his name. Tom.

“You don’t get to leave,” he says, voice soft, almost tender. Almost. “You don’t get to walk away, not from me.”

And you hate him—truly, you do—for the way your knees weaken at the sound of him. For the way your heart, traitorous and tired, still beats for him even now.

"Love is supposed to be gentle," you whisper, voice thin as glass. "Not something you survive."

He only smiles. Cold. Cruel. Beautiful. “But we were never meant to be gentle, darling. I was made to conquer. And you… you were made to kneel.”

You wonder, distantly, if this is what tragedy feels like—being loved by a boy who only knows how to destroy.

And still, when his fingers catch your chin, when his lips brush yours like a ghost, you find yourself breaking.

“I should go,” you breathe.

Tom’s grin sharpens, pulling you closer. “Then go,” he dares, “but tell me—when you leave, what exactly is left of you?”

The room falls silent, save for the sound of your breath hitching—your answer lingering, unfinished, somewhere between your throat and your heart.