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Where The Door Stayed Open
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2025-06-08 23:19:27
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The Softest Kind of Ruin Where the Fog Gathers
The house was small.Just three rooms and a crooked porch that moaned with every passing breeze. It sat on the edge of a coastal town where the fog rolled in like memory—soft and heavy, blurring the edges of everything.Nicole stood barefoot on the porch, a chipped mug warming her hands. The tea had long gone cold. She wasn’t waiting for anything. But she watched, always. The ocean stretched out before her like a wound stitched in salt and silence. Behind her, the house creaked—settling, shifting. Breathing.Or maybe it was him.She didn’t flinch when the patio door opened. Keiran moved behind her, quiet as always. But she knew his presence now the way one knows the weight of their own shadow. He didn’t speak. He never did in the mornings. Instead, he stood close. Let their silence touch. Let the wind carry whatever hadn’t been said.They had been there three months. Maybe four. No phones. No internet. No names. At the edge of town, the locals called them the quiet couple. She someti
The Softest Kind of Ruin The Kettle Whistled Softly
The kettle whistled softly.Nicole stood at the stove, one hand curled around the handle of a chipped mug, the other resting absently against her stomach. Steam curled up and fogged the small kitchen window, turning the city outside into a smear of grey. The air smelled like jasmine—and something sharper. Metallic.Behind her, Keiran moved without sound. He always did. But she felt him there. The way the temperature shifted when he entered the room. The quiet tightening in her spine when his gaze lingered too long.She poured the tea. Two cups. She didn’t ask if he wanted one anymore. He always drank it, even if it sat cooling in his hands for hours.There was a rhythm now. A routine stitched together from silence and strange comfort. He slept on the edge of her bed. Sometimes on the floor. Always close. She never asked where he went when he left the apartment. She didn’t ask about the blood she occasionally smelled on his coat, or why the knives in the drawer were always rearranged.
The Softest Kind of Ruin Where The Door Stayed Open
She let him in.And after that, she never truly closed the door.He remembered the first night—how her fingers trembled when they brushed against his coat. How her eyes lingered, searching for something she couldn’t admit wanting. Not yet. But she would. She always did.Every time he left, he told himself not to return. That space would be mercy. That maybe—just maybe—she would forget him, and he could go back to being nothing. But forgetting wasn’t in her nature. And letting go wasn’t in his.He watched her from the shadows. Always had. He stood across the street from the clinic where she met with the psychologist, noting how she hesitated at the door. Sometimes she didn’t go in at all. She was trying.Her shoulders were straighter now. Chin higher. Like she believed she still had control over her own story. But she didn’t. Not really.Kieran had already threaded himself too deeply into her life. Her rituals. Her silence. Her fear. He saw himself in the bruises she no longer covered.
The Softest Kind of Ruin A Quiet Descent
She didn’t remember the collapse—only the cold tile beneath her knees, the smell of blood that wasn’t hers, and William, gasping beneath her hands—pressure applied too hard, too late, like trying to stop time with fingers and breath.Then… silence.The doctors called it shock. Dehydration. Acute stress response. Words that circled the truth without touching it. Words that didn’t come close to what it felt like to break.Yvette found her. Three days later. Curled on the bathroom floor. Her body hollowed out, her voice gone. William had already been rushed into surgery. The apartment reeked of old copper and something worse—something missing.There were bandages on her hands—scrapes from broken glass, maybe. A bruise darkened her ribs. A stitched cut on her shoulder she didn’t remember getting.She never asked how Yvette found her. Never asked who called the ambulance. There were bigger things to understand.She spent two nights in the hospital. The walls didn’t feel sterile. They felt
The Softest Kind of Ruin Still Yours
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Blood glinted under the streetlight, painting the sidewalk in blurred halos. William’s jacket was soaked, clutched to his side, his breath a ragged whisper. Still alive. Barely.The world tunneled around her. Someone was screaming.It took a moment to realize it was her.It had been weeks since she last saw Vane.After that night in the city—his voice, his eyes, the terrible clarity—he vanished. No texts. No sightings. Not even that hum she’d grown used to, the sense of being watched.And that was the most terrifying part. Because she missed it.The silence.The weight of being known.It had wrapped itself around her like a second skin.Then came the message. No envelope. No note. Just a photograph slipped into her coat pocket, though she had no idea when or how.Vane—bloody, unconscious, barely alive. A sterile hospital floor. A shallow pool of blood. A single caption scribbled on the back in blocky, decisive handwriting: "Still yours."He had
The Softest Kind of Ruin The Lullaby
“I always knew it would end like this.”She hadn’t meant to stay late. But lately, time didn’t behave like it used to. It slipped sideways—soft, ungraspable—folding her days into fog. Hours bled into each other like spilled water, and she drifted through them with the quiet precision of someone performing a life they no longer owned. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending.Everyone thought she was healing. She let them. Wore normalcy like a coat two sizes too big—awkward, heavy, impossible to shrug off.The city tonight felt suspended. The kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe—it warns. Silver light pooled beneath flickering streetlamps. Leaves skated down gutters. Somewhere, music spilled faintly from an open window, but even that felt far away. Disconnected. Like the world was holding its breath.She walked.Not hurried. Not slow. Just enough to feel in control. Her fingers curled around her keys, the jagged metal biting into her palm—a small pain, a sharp reminder: You’re awake. You’re here. The
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