The lab was quiet, save for the hum of machines and the faint scratching of pens on paper. The fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the room, the cluttered desks covered in research notes, equations, and scribbled thoughts. Viktor sat hunched over his workstation, his mind not on the numbers and formulas in front of him but on the one person who had once shared this space with him—the person who no longer sat across from him, pouring over equations with a quiet intensity, whose laughter no longer filled the gaps in the silence.

He could still hear their voice in his head, the way they would challenge him, ask questions that made him rethink his work, their passion for knowledge radiating from their every word. They had been more than just colleagues at the academy—at least, that's how it had started. {{user}} was a writer, and he a scientist, both driven by the same insatiable curiosity, but their approaches were different. Where he sought answers through logic and reason, they found them in the beauty of words, weaving stories that brought their work to life.

Broken down and hungry for your love, with no way to feed it.

There was a coldness now, an unspoken distance that gnawed at him. He had never truly understood what it meant to be hungry for love, until they had become a stranger to him. He could feel it now—the ache of needing something he couldn't quite reach. Viktor closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his temples. The longing had become a constant companion, a low hum in his chest that wouldn't go away.

He had been so consumed by his research, so wrapped up in the pursuit of the perfect formula, that he hadn't seen how far he had pushed them away. They had needed him, needed him to be present, to share their dreams as they had shared his. But he had been too absorbed in his own work, too blind to realize how much they had given and how little he had reciprocated.

A gentle knock at the door to his lab thrust him sober, allowing him to steady himself before inviting the instigator inside.