Sometimes, I think the Universe has a personal vendetta against me. Not because I am a wicked bastard, or I’ve sinned more times than I’ve prayed.
It’s because I dared to want something… pure. And f****d it up the second I touched it.
That house. The f*****g mansion.
I’m standing across the road from it like a goddamn ghost haunting my own regret. The wind bites at my skin as if it knows I deserve this pain. This pain that doesn’t bleed me on the outside, but it festers. The one that names itself her.
The lights in her room are off. But the windows are still open.
The panes rattle as breath did beneath me so, so violent and unsure of what to do next. They’re cracked in the corner now, like her voice when she told me to leave. Violet curtains dance like haunted fabric, part inside, par
