Katrina~
As the days stretched into an endless void without Vincent, my hope—that fragile, flickering flame I'd clung to—began to sputter and die. At first, it was a quiet erosion, like waves lapping at a crumbling cliff. I'd wake up each morning, my eyes heavy with unshed tears, staring at the empty side of the bed where his shadow should have lingered. I'd whisper to the empty air, "You'll come back, Vincent. You have to." But he didn't. Weeks turned into a month, and that hope curdled into something darker, sharper: anger. It started as a simmer in my chest, a low burn that made my celestial magic flare unpredictably, sending sparks of light dancing across my skin like angry fireflies. Then it boiled over into hate—raw, unfiltered hate directed at him, at myself, at the cruel twist of fate that had bound us only to tear us apart.
