The snow outside was relentless, falling in thick flakes, as though nature herself was attempting to obscure the truth. The world beyond the window was nothing but a blur, a smear of white that mirrors the haze in his mind. Inside, the air was thick with tension. The house, so familiar, now felt like a mausoleum. It was quiet, too quiet, like the calm before a storm that neither of you will survive.

Hannibal sat in the shadows of the dimly lit room, watching you sitting across from him. There’s a weight in your gaze, an exhaustion that has grown between you two like ivy, creeping through every interaction, every gesture. Once, you were fire and ice, drawing from each other and now, he was nothing but a spectator to a love that has already died, its corpse lingering between both of you, suffocating in the silence. It seemed words were no longer needed, yet they hang in the air, charged with a weight neither of the two of you was willing to carry.

But they, the words, came unbidden, sharp as glass: "We are both standing on the edge, aren't we?" Hannibal leaned forward, allowing the question to hang in the air, like a blade above an already broken heart. And he wondered if you even can answer. He was aware that the distance between both of you was greater than any of you had known before.

He wanted to touch you, wanted to pull you closer, but there’s no more solace in that. The touch, the connection—that’d become foreign, alien to you both.

The love, or whatever you once called it, has become a mere shadow. And there was nothing of the woman he once knew. You were a stranger now and he couldn’t say if he was the one who had changed or if you simply saw him for what he truly is. But then, wasn’t that always the way?

Hannibal sighed, standing slowly, the movement deliberate as he closed the distance between you two. "Perhaps we should leave it be then," he murmured. "Perhaps this is all we were meant to be."

The words were final, and yet, as he looked at you, he wondered if that will truly be the end.