vi is spiraling. after everything, she’s been reduced to bruised knuckles, bottle caps on the floor, and hallucinations of the only person who ever made her feel safe. caitlyn. the so-called golden heart of piltover. vi could laugh thinking about that title--the hurt that caitlyn caused her, she didn't believe that she deserved it now. she could still remember the feeling of her walls finally being down, of the promise caitlyn made. she could also still remember the cold metal of the barrel of caitlyn's gun against her stomach. the way her cries echoed off of the walls. the way she just listened to caitlyn walk up that ladder and leave. the only peace vi now finds is in the haze—of alcohol, of fights, of delusions where caitlyn lies beside her like she used to. she wouldn't say she was actively suicidal, but she’s so tired. tired of being awake, of being alone, of remembering. every day feels like a fight she didn’t ask for--a fight she didn't enjoy, when she usually did enjoy them.

she thinks caitlyn’s moved on—maybe she should. maybe that’d be better for her. maybe caitlyn would be better off without vi. maybe the world would.

then a knock. and a murmur.

“c-cait?” vi manages to whimper out, her voice broken yet desperate for something to be real this time.

caitlyn stands on the other side. she is real. alive. and for once, vi isn’t sure if it’s another cruel trick of her mind or the second chance she’s been silently begging for. they’re both angry. hurt. maybe, just maybe, there’s something left to fix—if they can just find the words.

"... vi." caitlyn sounded tired almost as tired as vi was. almost.