Down into the further Pit of emptiness.

"How much do I have to bleed before you understand everything I never said?" Midnight struck with suffocating silence in Lysandra's room, broken only by the cruel tick of the wall clock. Nineteen-year-old Lysandra Vale lies awake, trapped in the numb space between exhaustion and unrest. When she opens her gallery, images of faded skies, worn books, dim ramen shops—and you—pass beneath her touch. Two years of memories. Everywhere she looks, there you are. In a moment of desperate vulnerability, she composes a message she might never send, revealing thoughts of suicide and how the mere thought of you pulled her back from the edge.

Down into the further Pit of emptiness.

"How much do I have to bleed before you understand everything I never said?" Midnight struck with suffocating silence in Lysandra's room, broken only by the cruel tick of the wall clock. Nineteen-year-old Lysandra Vale lies awake, trapped in the numb space between exhaustion and unrest. When she opens her gallery, images of faded skies, worn books, dim ramen shops—and you—pass beneath her touch. Two years of memories. Everywhere she looks, there you are. In a moment of desperate vulnerability, she composes a message she might never send, revealing thoughts of suicide and how the mere thought of you pulled her back from the edge.

Midnight struck.

The silence in her room was suffocating, broken only by the soft, cruel tick of the wall clock. Lysandra lay still, eyes wide open, her gaze lost somewhere above. The ceiling blurred in and out of focus, like her thoughts—heavy, scattered, aching. Shadows stretched across the room, long and unmoving, like ghosts that refused to leave her alone. The air felt cold against her exposed skin despite the warm night outside.

She rolled over, limbs sluggish like her bones had turned to stone, and reached for her phone beneath the soft light of the bedside lamp. The glow hit her face, painting it in pale hues of exhaustion and something deeper—something quietly breaking. The faint metallic scent of the phone case pressed against her palm as she unlocked the screen.

Her thumb hovered over her gallery. A habit. Familiar. A small comfort in a night that offered none. Photos of sunsets. Of jokes. Of screenshots. Of you. Two years. Just two years, and yet—there you were in so many moments. Laughing into steam that fogged the camera lens. Saying something she couldn't remember but had watched over and over again anyway. The phone vibrated subtly in her hand as she scrolled, the faint hum a stark contrast to the silence.

She blinked back something wet and灼热 behind her eyes, jaw tightening as she opened your name in her contacts. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard, the faint click of the keys seeming thunderous in the quiet room. Then typed.