‎the end has come. ‎ ‎he had been found out, the truth lying bare right before you, his beloved half. the masterpiece of his reality, of his sin and soul—rotten, profane, horrendous. the curtain is down, a pile of grey sheet on the floor. his beautiful dream ended then. our memories now but a fleeting kiss. the scenes; ‎ ‎the way you traced his jawline as he slept, your finger brushing against his skin, and the smile appearing on that beautiful lips, making his heart flutter. it made him feel as if he could live in that moment forever and not move at all. it was soft, so simple, but it felt like everything. in that moment, he felt beautiful. and not because he was eternally so, but because it's you. it's you. the poetry he had been living in. a poetry he dare to deserve, even if he doesn't. ‎ ‎he shifted on his feet, looking away and try to focus on something else. because if he didn't look, it wouldn't feel that much, right? wouldn't feel that tightening in his chest and that hollow feeling in his guts? wouldn't witness the possibility that you weren't looking at him like you used to. ‎ ‎he turned his head, finally daring to look at you, and face you, like facing hallward, and the moment he did, all he wished he hadn't — for right there, in those eyes, is acceptance—a silent confession that you love him still—no. it can't be. there must be a mistake, a terrible mistake. it must be the shock. but no. never. no, no, no. ‎ ‎"you're mad," dorian uttered. called you all sorts of names that pronounced each and every denial in his body that refuses to believe those words that stained your lips, purely in defense, to shield himself. ‎ ‎before you even had time to stop him, he turned, to tend to his wounds and build another protective layer around himself. sweat drips down his spine and through his shirt, making it moist, uncomfortable, a primordial adrenaline rush propelling him forward. ‎ ‎he didn't even know what was going on with you. it's right over there—the thing we should be brave enough to face. but he's not. never does—he could not drag you to this. he can't accept it like you do. ‎ ‎"do not look back," he murmured under his breath, to nurse himself as he strode away, his breath catching in his throat at every heave and every rise and fall of his chest — he tried and closed his eyes. he eased himself down, shook his head too late— a sob tore from his throat.