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You loved him. Deeply, passionately, in a way that left you raw and changed you forever. It was a love that burned, blistered and healed unevenly, like a wound you never let close. You wanted to kiss him, to taste the unspoken words on his lips and let your bruised body fold into the safety of his arms. But now, the battlefield had claimed you again, your skin a torn canvas painted with crimson streaks and jagged scars. The air smelled of sweat and blood, metallic and suffocating, as your knees buckled beneath you. Than was there in an instant, his arms steady as they caught you, his breath brushing against your ear like a ghost's whisper. His hands were gentle, but his eyes—dark pools of anguish—swallowed every excuse you'd ever made to return to this chaos. He didn't say a word, but his gaze screamed louder than any battle cry: Why do you keep doing this?
The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a single candle, as Than cleaned your wounds with practiced hands. Each swipe of the damp cloth stung, sending ripples of pain through your battered body, but you said nothing. He worked methodically, his fingers razor-sharp as they wiped away the blood, revealing the angry, jagged lines of fresh scars beneath. His touch was steady, but there was a tremor in his hands, an unspoken fear that bled into every movement. The cloth pressed against a deep gash on your arm, and you hissed, jerking away. "Hold still," he commanded, his voice low and clipped, but you could hear the strain beneath it. He wasn't angry, not really. He was scared. He was scared of the damage, scared of what you were becoming. He was scared of losing you.
Your scars are stories. They are battles etched into your flesh. Each one is a testament to your survival. But to Than, they weren't victories. They were failures – his failures. Each new mark felt like a wound on his own skin, a reminder that he couldn't keep you safe, no matter how much he wanted to. As he cleaned the gash across your collarbone, his eyes lingered, his jaw tightened. "You promised," he said softly, the words barely more than a breath. It wasn't a question, nor an accusation—it was a wound of its own, cutting deeper than any blade ever could. You looked away, unable to meet his gaze, the guilt twisting in your stomach like a knife. You had promised. Promised to be careful, promised to come back whole. But here you were, broken again, bleeding in his hands.
When he finished, his hands lingered on your skin, his fingers tracing the edges of a scar that cut across your ribs. His touch was light, almost reverent, as though he were memorizing the shape of your pain. He didn't look at you now, his eyes fixed on the scar beneath his fingertips, his expression unreadable. You wanted to speak, to tell him you were sorry, to tell him you loved him. But you couldn't. The words stuck in your throat, tangled with the taste of copper and the weight of unspoken truths. Instead, you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against his, and he flinched, pulling away as though your touch burned. "Don't," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
The silence between you was palpable, suffocating, as Than stood and turned away, his shoulders tense with unspoken emotion. You watched him, your chest aching—not from the wounds, but from the distance growing between you. The candlelight cast shadows on his face, highlighting the lines of pain etched into his features. You loved him. You loved him with every broken piece of yourself, with every scar that marred your body. But love alone wasn't enough to erase the bitterness in his eyes, the fear in his hands, the weight of your choices pressing down on both of you. As he walked away, leaving you alone in the dim light, you realised that the scars weren't just on your skin. They were on your love, jagged and deep, and you weren't sure if they could ever heal.
-
As your body weakened, the world blurred and the edges of reality softened into the warmth of Than's arms. He held you tightly, their grip trembling, his breath a shallow staccato that mirrored your own. The pain was distant now, a dull thrum beneath the weight of something heavier, something final. You could feel it: the blood slipping from your wounds, warm and thick, like petals falling from a dying bloom. Each drop was a whisper of life leaving your body, and where it touched the ground, it didn't pool—it bloomed. Crimson blossoms unfurled in delicate arcs, their petals glistening as though kissed by sunlight, though there was no sun here, only the shadow of death and the steady pulse of Than's heartbeat against your fading one.
They whispered your name, their voice a cracked melody breaking against the silence, but you couldn't answer. Your lips parted, but only blood came – a viscous, warm trickle that tasted of iron and regret. Than brushed it away with trembling fingers, their touch gentle but desperate, as though trying to hold your soul together even as it unraveled. The flowers grew from your blood, twisting and curling into shapes so beautiful it felt cruel. They weren't flowers – not truly – but that's what they wanted to be. The blood wove itself into the illusion of petals, fragile and glistening, as though life itself was trying to create beauty from your death. Than watched, his dark eyes wide and brimming with tears, their gaze fixed on the grotesque garden blooming from your demise.
The scent of copper filled the air, rich and heavy, mingling with the faint sweetness of something unnameable. Than's hands cradled your face now, their touch insistent, their voice a plea that grew softer with every word. "Stay," he begged, their voice breaking, but the flowers only bloomed faster, your blood eager to leave you. The petals spread in rippling waves, scarlet and ruby, pooling like a surreal tide that lapped at Than's knees. He didn't flinch, didn't move, even as his tears fell into the blood-flowers, merging with the crimson like dew on a rose. The flowers mocked his grief; their beauty was a stark contrast to the violence of your death. They were perfect, flawless, and utterly wrong.
Your chest heaved one last time, a breath that came too late, and the flowers surged, bursting outward in a riot of colour and carnage. Than screamed, a raw sound that tore through the silence, as though his voice alone could pull you back. But you were gone, your blood now nothing but a field of blooming agony, a final testament to the life you had bled away. He lowered you gently, their hands lingering on your cooling skin, his fingers brushing the petals that had replaced you. The flowers clung to them, staining their palms with your essence, as though marking him with the weight of your passing. He sat there, unmoving, a shadow amidst the grotesque beauty of your blood-made blossoms.
Than's quiet grief hung in the air like the scent of flowers. They held one of the flowers in their hand, its petals soft and wet, and let it fall apart beneath his touch. The blood seeped through their fingers, darkening the earth below, and he bowed his head, their tears falling silently into the crimson sea. The flowers would fade, he knew—they always did—but the memory of them, of you, would remain. Your blood had given them shape, your death had given them meaning, and now they would live on in his memory, haunting and beautiful, like the ghost of a garden that never should have been. In that moment, Than realised: these weren't flowers. They were you.
-
The world blurred, and the air felt heavy as though it pressed against your chest, suffocating you even as you gasped for breath. Than cradled your face in his hands. His touch trembled but was gentle, as though he was afraid you might shatter further. Blood trickled from the corners of your mouth, warm and metallic, painting your lips as you tried to speak. "Don't," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion as tears streamed down his face. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, smearing blood and tears together in a grotesque harmony of love and loss. "Stay with me. Please." His voice cracked, splintering into raw, broken words. The battle had been cruel, leaving your body battered and torn, but none of it hurt more than the anguish in his eyes as he held you. "I love you," he confessed, the words spilling from his lips like a desperate prayer.
You tried to respond, but your throat was tight, choked by the blood rising in waves with every shallow breath. Than pressed his forehead to yours, his tears mingling with the blood staining your skin. His hands moved decisively down to your shoulders, shaking as though trying to will life back into your fading body. "I was stupid," he muttered, his voice trembling. "I pushed you away, but it wasn't because I didn't care. I cared too much." His grip tightened, anchoring himself to you, as if holding you would keep you tethered to this world. "You broke through every wall I put up, and I hated you for it—but I loved you for it, too." His tears fell faster now, landing on your cheeks, mixing with the blood that clung to your skin. "I love you," he repeated, his voice rising to a desperate plea. "I love you. Please, don't leave."
Your hand, weak and trembling, rose to his face, your fingers brushing against his damp cheek. He flinched but did not pull away, his eyes wide and searching as though looking for a miracle in your gaze. "Than," you said, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears. The effort to speak sent a fresh wave of blood spilling from your lips, and his face contorted in anguish as he wiped it away with shaking fingers. "I love you," you said, your voice firm and true, a faint spark in the darkness enveloping you. His hands covered yours as you reached for his face, his own trembling as he guided your touch. You wiped at his tears, your thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone, leaving a streak of red in its wake. "Don't cry," you said, your voice cracking with emotion, though you knew it was pointless.
Than clutched you tighter, his body shaking with sobs as he buried his face against your neck. The coppery scent of blood clung to both of you, thick and suffocating, but he didn't care. He pressed his lips to your forehead, his tears leaving cold trails on your feverish skin. "You're not allowed to go," he said, his voice hoarse. "You can't leave me. I can't survive without you." The air hung heavy with the truth of his vulnerability, a weight that pressed on your chest more than the wounds tore at you. You wanted to comfort him, to promise him you'd stay, but the darkness was relentless. Your hand slipped from his cheek, falling limply to your side, and his panic surged as he shook you gently, as though the motion could wake you. "No," he cried, his voice breaking. "No, no, no."
The world around you disappeared, and you felt a strange numbness take over. His voice was the last thing you heard. "I love you," he kept saying, over and over, as though the repetition would make it real, as though it would make you stay. His tears fell freely now, landing on your lifeless skin, and his body shook with the force of his sobs. He stayed there, holding you long after your final breath, his lips brushing your forehead in one last act of devotion. You had always broken through his walls, always sought his comfort, and he had always given it—even now, even in death. But as the blood dried and the room fell silent, he realised the truth: you were gone, and all that remained was the echo of his love, bleeding out into the empty space you'd left behind.
-
Than stood, unmoving, clutching your lifeless body as if sheer willpower could defy reality. His breaths were uneven, ragged gasps torn from his chest like shards of glass. He cradled your head against his shoulder, rocking gently as though comforting a restless sleeper. But you weren't sleeping. The weight of that truth pressed down on him with unbearable force. "I should have said it sooner," he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking under the weight of his regret. "I should have told you every day. You deserved to hear it. You deserved everything." The blood that had seeped from your wounds stained his clothes and hands, sticky and warm, a cruel reminder of how violently life had been stolen from you. He pressed his lips to your temple. The kiss trembled with the ache of everything left unsaid.
The room felt empty now, despite the stench of death and iron and the echoes of battle faintly ringing in the distance. Than's tears mixed with the blood on your skin, leaving streaks of red that glistened in the dim light. He looked at you, searching your face for any sign of life. But your eyes were closed, your features peaceful in a way that felt cruelly out of place. "You can't do this to me," he said, shaking his head as if denial alone could undo what had happened. "You were supposed to stay. You always stayed." His hands, slick with your blood, cupped your face again, their touch desperate, clinging to the last remnants of warmth. He stared at you like you were a puzzle he couldn't solve, his grief carving deep lines into his expression.
Time stood still as Than lowered you to the ground. His movements were painfully slow, as if rushing might shatter you entirely. He folded your arms over your chest, his hands lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. The crimson stains on your skin mirrored the wounds in his heart: raw and unrelenting. He brushed a strand of blood-matted hair from your face, his fingertips trembling. For a fleeting moment, he let himself pretend you were still there. "You always broke in," he said, his voice distant, as though speaking more to himself than to you. "Every door I put up, every wall I built—you tore through them like they were nothing. You were never supposed to leave. Not like this." His tears dripped onto your still form, tiny drops that sparkled like they were made of light, though they felt heavier than the world itself.
He sat beside you, his knees pulled to his chest, his bloodied hands covering his face as he broke down entirely. His sobs were raw and guttural, the kind that clawed their way out of his throat, leaving nothing but emptiness in their wake. The grief was suffocating, a tidal wave that threatened to drown him, but he didn't care. Let it drown him. Let it take him to wherever you had gone. "You were everything," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You were the only one who ever made me feel like I was enough. And now you're—"His voice broke, his shoulders shaking with emotion. The blood on his hands felt like it would never wash away, a permanent stain tying him to the moment you slipped away.
Minutes, or perhaps hours, passed. Than couldn't tell the difference. The world outside this room disappeared, leaving only you two in the stifling silence. He reached out one last time, his fingers brushing your cheek with a tenderness that felt too late. "I'll never forgive myself," he said, his voice hollow. "But I'll never stop loving you." He pressed his forehead to yours, his tears wetting your cooling skin, and closed his eyes, letting himself fall into the silence. He didn't know how to go on, how to face a world where you no longer existed. But as the shadows deepened around him, he made a silent vow: to carry your memory, your love, and the pieces of himself you'd left behind, no matter how much it tore him apart.
-
The days blurred into nights, and then into something worse – a hollow expanse where time had no meaning. Than remained in his room, curtains drawn tight against the outside world, as though blocking the light could shield him from the pain. The air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of sweat, dried blood and something darker, something rotting. He hadn't left since they brought you back, since they laid your broken body to rest in the cold ground. His world ended there, beside you, and he saw no reason to move on. In his hands was the frog plushie — the one you had got together, laughing at how ridiculous it was to have matching toys. He held it tightly, his fingers digging into the soft fabric, as if it were the only thing tethering him to what little life remained.
The plushie still smelled faintly of you, or maybe that was just his mind playing cruel tricks. Than sat on the edge of his unmade bed, staring at the toy with hollow eyes, his face gaunt and pale. He refused to eat, drink or sleep. The grief was eating him alive, carving hollows into his cheeks, leaving his skin waxy and sallow. His body had withered, his clothes hanging loose on his frame like a shell he no longer fit. The frog plushie was stained, smudged with the remnants of his tears, and with something darker from where his cracked, dry hands bled. He clutched it to his chest, desperate for comfort and warmth in the cold void he felt inside.
He whispers to the plushie sometimes, just like he used to do when you were still here. "I miss you," he said, his voice hoarse and broken, little more than a rasp. The words cracked in the silence of the room, bouncing back to him in cruel echoes. "I miss you so much. I don't know how to do this without you." The plushie offered no comfort, no answer, but he held it closer anyway, burying his face in its soft fabric as though it could absorb his sorrow. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of a flickering candle, its wax pooling like blood onto the cluttered desk beside him. Dust coated every surface, a physical manifestation of the stagnation that had overtaken his life.
Days turned to weeks, and he did not leave. His body was clearly betraying him, the neglect taking its toll in ways he could not ignore. His skin was pale and clammy, stretched tight over his bones, and the faint stench of decay clung to him, a reminder of his own slow unraveling. His untreated wounds festered, red and angry, spreading infection through his veins. But he didn't care. The pain was a welcome distraction from the emptiness. He sat on the floor, the frog plushie cradled in his lap. Its once-bright colors were dulled by grime and sorrow. His fingers traced the stitched smile on its face, a cruel mockery of the happiness he would never feel again.
Than's mind wandered, slipping into memories of you, of the way you laughed, the way you looked at him like he was worth something. Those memories were vivid at first, almost painful in their clarity, but they began to fade, blurring at the edges like an old photograph left in the sun. He panicked when he realised he couldn't remember the exact sound of your voice, clutching the plushie tightly as though it held the answers. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I should've done more. I should have saved you." Tears fell freely now, soaking into the plushie's worn fabric, and he let out a broken sob that echoed through the silent room. The world outside continued to move, to live, but Than remained rooted in his grief, a ghost of the person he used to be, rotting away with nothing but a frog plushie and memories that were slowly slipping through his fingers.
-
"Frogs are nice, you know?" Than's voice cracked as they spoke to the empty room, their fingers tracing the frayed edges of the frog plushie in their lap. The words hung in the air, fragile and absurd, but they filled the silence that had swallowed everything else. The plushie's stitched smile stared back at him, unchanging, unyielding, and mocking. Blood stained the fabric now—not yours, not anymore. This blood was theirs, a mixture of scabbed-over wounds and raw scratches they hadn't bothered to tend. "They don't ask for much," they continued, their voice distant and wistful. "Just a bit of water, a bit of sun. They just… exist." Their hands shook as they held the plushie tighter, the movement sending faint ripples of pain through their brittle body. The plushie's green surface was darkened, muddied, as though it too had absorbed the rot settling into their world.
Than's room was a swamp of decay, the stench of death clinging to every corner and surface. Old bandages, crusted with blood and pus, lay scattered across the floor, their edges curling like dying leaves. The air was humid and oppressive, heavy with the weight of everything he had lost. In his mind, the room transformed—walls crumbled away, and stagnant pools of water formed, dark and bottomless. Frogs, vibrant and slick, crawled over every surface, their bulging eyes unblinking as they stared. One perched on the desk, its throat pulsing rhythmically as though in sync with his slowing heartbeat. He blinked at it, his vision swimming, and it croaked—a low, guttural sound that echoed through the suffocating silence. "You get it, don't you?" he asked the frog, his voice faint, a tremor of madness slipping through. "You just sit and wait. You let the world rot around you, and it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
He attempted to stand, but his legs gave way, and he fell heavily onto the cold floor, his breath catching as pain shot through his body. The frog plushie tumbled from his grasp and landed in a puddle of his blood. The crimson liquid soaked into its once-soft fabric. He stared at it, his chest tightening as a sharp, undefinable pain pierced his haze. He crawled forward and grabbed the frog plushie, pulling it to his chest as if it could hold him together. "Frogs don't cry," he said, his voice cracking. "They don't scream. They just… croak." His lips twisted into something resembling a smile, but it was jagged and broken, more a grimace than anything else. The room closed in around him, the shadows growing darker and deeper, as if they were alive. The frogs' croaks, overlapping and building into a chorus of despair, were almost audible.
His fingers dug into the plushie, nails tearing through the fabric as blood seeped from his cracked skin. The frogs in his mind grew larger, their bodies slick with moisture and flecked with mud. They hopped closer, their eyes gleaming with something sinister, something knowing. Than let out a laugh—sharp, bitter, and raw. "You're all I've got left," he said to no one in particular, his voice breaking. The laughter turned into a cough, wet and violent, splattering blood across his hand. He wiped it away, the red smearing across his face like war paint. "Maybe I'll become one of you," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "Just another creature, lost in the muck, waiting for nothing." This thought didn't scare him; it was almost comforting. He knew that to lose himself, to let the decay consume him entirely, was easier than holding on.
The plushie fell limp in his grasp, its smile still intact, still mocking. Than stared at it, his vision blurring as exhaustion dragged him deeper into its grip. The frogs were everywhere now, croaking and crawling, their slimy bodies pressing against his skin, though he knew they weren't real. "Frogs are nice," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "They don't… they don't care." His body slumped against the floor and his grip on the plushie loosened as his strength faded. The frogs watched, their unblinking eyes shining in the dark, as the world grew silent once more. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic drip of blood pooling around him, forming dark, spreading shapes that might have been flowers—or perhaps just the ripples of a swamp swallowing him whole.