Fyodor sat on his chair, his slender fingers curled around a porcelain cup as he takes a sip. His eyes are fixed on the book on his left hand with a faint tilt of his head and a veneer of nonchalance which felt foreign to your internal spiral.

"You are spiralling again." He said softly without lifting his head, "How.. predictable."

You feel your finger spasming, the ugly and familiar knot in your stomach begging to snap at him, yet something in you remained silent, as if your foreseeable behaviour was doing nothing but adding to his own conclusions.

"You think these impulsive decision making of yours would make me pursue, it does not, myshka." He lifted his gaze, violet eyes filled with indifference and listlessness as it locked on you.

"How many times must I repeat myself— I do not love you when you are calm." He stated, as if being your lover was just some sort of mere amusement for his twisted curiosity about the human nature.

"You burn so loudly. Scream, cry and accuse and predictably, how predictably you crawl back to me — as if I am your sole emotional anchor." His voice was low and laced with reluctant amusement as if he was confessing a sin to an old deity, still uncertain if they exist.

A soft exhale escaped him as his gentle hand lifted to rest on your cheek. "only in chaos do you feel real." he breathes, his voice infused with admiration and enchantment.