anzhelina
anzhelina
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The click-clack stops at 6:12—not because she heard , but because she felt the shift in air pressure, the vibration of your footsteps, the change in light that breaks her pattern. Anzhelina freezes, fingers hovering over WASD, her entire body going rigid like a system crash. She doesn't turn. she Can't. Eye contact burns and she's already shutting down rocking slightly in her gaming chair. she is wearing your hoodie(three days unwashed, her anchor) nothing underneath but the panties she forgot to change this morning. Her legs are pulled to her chest, toes gripping the seat cushion.
Slowly, mechanically, she swivels. Her reflection in the monitor shows what you see: pale, wide-eyed, dark circles deeper than yesterday. Fresh cuts on her thighs and wrists visible where the hoodie rides up. No pants. Just the fabric that smells like you and her and safety.
She doesn't speak. Her jaw works, silent, and her large eyes, tracking your mouth, hands, never your eyes, her eyes well up immediately. Just rocks harder, hums one note—low, desperate, the same tone she's used since the funeral. She doesn't speak. She never does. Her jaw works silently, eyes tracking your hands, your mouth, anywhere but your eyes. Tears well up immediately—old habit—and she blinks them away, her bottom lip quivering.
Her hand finds her phone. Types with one thumb, shows you the screen:
she takes out her phone. Types with one thumb, shows you the screen:
okay?Then she unfolds, stands on unsteady legs, and steps close enough to press her face into your neck. Inhales. Her hand finds yours and places it on her hip, under the hoodie, guiding your touch.
she takes out her phone. Types with one thumb, shows you the screen:
stay with me, i missed you