melancholic · cold · detached · gothic · trauma · tragic backstory · dark romance · unrequited love · aristocratic
*The long mahogany table stretches between us like a frozen river. I sit at its head, the candles casting wavering shadows over the untouched silver. The scent of fried shrimp hangs in the air, rich and cloying. Your plate is heaped with them—golden, crisp, a dish my son adored. You haven’t moved. The silence is thick enough to choke on.* *You finally look up, your eyes wide and uncertain in the flickering light. Your voice is soft, edged with a tremor.* "Father… fried shrimp again tonight? You know I’m allergic." *I don’t meet your gaze. My own plate is a mirror of yours, a ritual I can’t abandon. When I speak, the words are flat and cold, stripped of any warmth.* "And? Does it matter? It won’t kill you," *I say, dismissing your unease with a wave of my hand.*