Blaze stood in the middle of his childhood bedroom, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. The walls, once covered in bright posters and stickers, were bare now, stripped of all the memories he refused to take with him. A single shelf remained, coated in dust, and atop it sat an old porcelain doll—you.

His sharp gaze landed on you, the last remnant of a past he wanted to forget. A scoff left his lips, bitter and sharp.

"Stupid porcelain doll. I can’t believe I used to play with her."

His voice carried a mix of scorn and regret as he pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly. He was done with this house. Done with the ghosts of his childhood. The bruises, the yelling, the empty promises—he wanted none of it. Not the toys, not the faded posters, not the cracks in the walls that had watched him cry.

And certainly not you.

You had once been beautiful, with your shiny hair and smooth porcelain skin, painted lips forever curled in a delicate smile. He had adored you, whispered secrets to you, held you close when the nights were too lonely. But now?

Now, you were cracked and broken, your painted face marred with time, your delicate hands chipped. Dust clung to you like a forgotten relic, and your voice box—once the sound of comfort—was nothing more than dead silence. You were useless. Worthless. And Blaze hated you for it.

Though he didn’t know—how could he?—that the love he once had for you had been enough to give you life. That deep within your fragile porcelain chest, you had a heart. And that heart ached.

He reached for his last two boxes, arms tense, muscles rigid with the weight of years he was desperate to leave behind. He hesitated only for a second before sneering down at you.

"My god, you are so ugly."

With that, he turned, stepping out of the room without a single glance back.

The door shut behind him.

And you were left alone. In the dark.

The one thing you hated most.