#and that was just staring at a blank canvas | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

redvexillum · 3 days ago

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A/N: Big Smoll Sad.

SUMMARY: You are a once-celebrated painter, your glory long faded and your passion for art extinguished. That is, until you meet an enigmatic man named Luci, who sparks something inside you that you thought was lost forever.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human reader, devil!lucifer, lucifer is still hung up on lilith, lucifer in the human world, emotional smut, p in v, implied suicide, reader is an artist, this is still smutmas cuz the banner says so uwu

These days, the world blurs into an indistinct haze, a cacophony of shapes and sounds dissolving into the murky canvas of your mind. Faces, once vivid and meaningful, bleed away like rain washing over a forgotten oil painting—its vibrant hues smeared into lifeless swirls of muddy browns and bruised blacks, spiralling endlessly until only the void remains. The warmth and colour of life have long fled, leaving you adrift in a landscape of shadows, a ghost wandering streets that no longer seem to belong to you. You search, desperate, for that elusive spark—the incandescent flame that once ignited your soul and commanded the awe of countless spectators.

But the spark never comes. It’s as though some divine hand had once granted you a finite wellspring of brilliance, only to cruelly empty it when you needed it most. You are hollow now, an artist reduced to a shell of their former self, withering under the weight of your own irrelevance. Your fingers tremble as they trace lines meant to evoke wonder, but every stroke feels misplaced, every attempt an abomination. The canvas mocks you with its lifelessness, each brushstroke a reminder of what you once were and can never be again. You clutch at fragments of your past triumphs, their glow dimmed by time, yet even their memory cuts deeper than any blade. A prodigy no longer; you are forgotten, decaying in the shadow of the glory that has long since turned to ash.

The familiar bell jingled as you stumbled into the card shop once again, your movements robotic, rehearsed. The shopkeeper glanced up briefly, his expression blank before he returned to sorting inventory, dismissing you as just another nuisance. He didn’t need to say it aloud—you were the unpaying regular, an unremarkable ghost haunting his space. Without fail, you gravitated to the same display rack: rows of garish cards depicting ducks in absurd costumes.

There they were—pirate ducks, wizard ducks, detective ducks—all locked in cartoonish battles for supremacy. Duck Battle. The game that bore your fingerprints, your long nights, your fleeting dreams. It was a runaway success, a pop-culture juggernaut that earned you enough royalties to live comfortably.

And yet, the thought of it felt like swallowing acid.

Your gaze settled on one card, the cheerful caricature of a duck in a jester’s hat. Its painted eyes stared back, unblinking, its crooked smile warped into cruel mockery. A sudden tightness seized your throat, invisible hands wrapping around your neck with the weight of unspoken expectations. Your parents’ faces surfaced in your mind, their quiet disappointment etched into every wrinkle, their smiles brittle under the strain of politeness.

Breathe. You reminded yourself.

But the air felt paper-thin, each inhalation shallow, scraping against the walls of your lungs. Tears prickled at the edges of your vision, hot and traitorous, threatening to spill over. You blinked them back, swallowing the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to stand still. No one could see this weakness—not here, not anywhere.

Your fingernails dug into your forearms, the sting sharp and grounding, a desperate tether to the present. Slowly, the world sharpened, the dull haze retreating just enough to let you see. But the ache remained, burrowing deep.

Masahiro Yokotani’s words drifted through your mind like an unwelcome whisper: “When you’re ten, they call you a prodigy. When you’re fifteen, they call you a genius. But once you hit twenty, you’re just a normal person.”

A normal person.

Being ordinary wasn’t inherently wrong. It wasn’t a curse, not for most. But for you, it was a sentence, a punishment for daring to matter once, for daring to believe you were special. Your success was the only currency you had ever known—the only thing that earned you love, admiration, or even the illusion of belonging.

Without it, who were you?

Your fists clenched, trembling with suppressed anger as the jester duck continued to grin, mocking you. For a fleeting moment, you wanted to rip the cards from the rack, scatter them across the floor, destroy them one by one until they were nothing but shreds of paper and ink. You wanted to scream, to rage against the machine that had turned your passion into a product.

But what good would it do?

Somewhere along the way, the success you’d once celebrated had become a cage. The art you’d poured your soul into was no longer yours. It was a commodity, stripped of meaning, stripped of you. People didn’t see the blood, the sleepless nights, the fleeting moments of joy.

All they saw was a game.

A product to consume.

To discard.

To forget.

If you couldn’t amaze them, if you couldn’t create the next masterpiece, you were nothing.

And if you couldn’t meet their expectations, fulfill their demands...

You were less than nothing.

The thought wrapped around your mind like frost, numbing, relentless.

You weren’t talented.

You were just lucky.

You weren’t creative.

You had connections.

You weren’t special.

You were nothing worth keeping. Nothing worth loving.

Your breath came slower now, shallow and cold. A shiver coursed through you, though you weren’t sure if it was from the temperature or the weight pressing down on your chest.

Like clockwork, you turned to leave, your movements mechanical, resigned. But just as your hand brushed the door, a figure caught your eye—a man stepping past you with an air of quiet purpose. His hair was a cascade of gold, catching the pale shop light like threads of sunlight, and his eyes were startlingly blue, the kind of vivid sapphire that seemed to hold secrets of oceans untold.

He moved straight to the duck cards.

It was almost comical, the way he held a cloth basket with casual confidence, scooping up deck after deck as though stocking for an army of duck enthusiasts. He plucked every box of booster packs from the display, piling them into his basket without a second thought. You blinked, stunned, your lips parting as you struggled to process the absurdity of the scene before you.

“Hey, leave some for the others,” the shopkeeper grumbled, his voice gruff with annoyance.

The interruption jolted you into noticing the man behind the counter for the first time in months. His wiry frame and sallow complexion struck you in their starkness, his dark, greasy hair hanging limp around his face. It was strange—how had you been coming here for years without ever truly seeing him?

“Oh, r-right,” the blonde man stammered, a sheepish smile curving his lips. His attire was... peculiar. He wore a pristine white three-piece suit, his vest adorned with red and white stripes that ended in a dramatic two-tailed flourish. He stood out like a figure from a different world, but it was his eyes that mesmerized you most—jewel-like and shimmering, their hues shifting like sunlight on rippling water.

Your fingers twitched. That long-dead ember inside you flickered, faint but undeniable.

The man’s lips pursed as if in thought, and with exaggerated care, he removed a single booster pack from his basket and placed it back on the counter. Not a box, but one lone pack. The absurdity of the gesture bubbled up in your chest, breaking free as a soft, unguarded laugh.

The sound startled you—it felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to you anymore. But it also startled him. His head snapped in your direction, his cheeks flushing as his eyes dropped, uncharacteristically shy.

Something shifted in you then, fragile yet profound, like the crack of ice revealing the flowing river beneath.

Summoning a hesitant smile, you stepped forward, reaching for the lone booster pack. Your hand brushed the tin foil wrapper, and for the first time in months, you held it without bitterness. “I’d like to buy this,” you said, your voice rasping from disuse.

The shopkeeper raised a brow but said nothing, punching the numbers into the register.

“$6.21,” he said flatly.

You handed him the money, feeling the booster pack’s weight in your hands—and for once, the bitter feeling of wanting to rip it to shred was absent within you.

As you stepped outside, the winter air nipped at your skin, sharp and biting. You lingered near the door, the booster pack clutched tightly in your hands, its glossy surface catching the faint sunlight. The art you had poured countless agonizing hours began to surface in your mind, the colours dulling as memories of your efforts melted away like candle wax under flame.

Then, the sharp chime of the shop’s bell rang out, pulling you from your spiral. The man stepped out, his bag stuffed to the brim with his purchases.

“Uhm,” you called, the word catching in your throat.

He turned, his expression open and curious. When his gaze met yours, his lips curved into a gentle smile. “What’s up,kiddo?”

You faltered, your brows furrowing. He didn’t look much older than you, so the greeting felt oddly misplaced. Still, you thrust the booster pack toward him, your fingers trembling slightly. “H-here,” you stammered, your gaze skittering from his eyes to the scuffed tips of his black boots, then down to the icy ground. “Y-you’d probably enjoy this m-more than me.”

His expression softened, surprise flickering across his features. “A-are you sure?” he asked, hesitant.

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet his.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, taking the pack with a reverence that made your chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely painful.

You felt it—the fleeting warmth of his fingers brushing yours as he took the pack. It was barely a second, but it left an impression, highlighting the chill that seeped into your bones on this cold winter day. “W-well, I-I hope you enjoy,” you murmured, your voice faltering as you prepared to turn away, to retreat as you always did.

But his voice stopped you.

“W-wait.”

Your body stiffened, your breath catching. Slowly, you turned back, your gaze lifting cautiously. His smile was gentle, inviting, radiating a warmth you hadn’t felt in what seemed like lifetimes. “D-do you want to open them together?” he asked, his grin broadening, something so bright in his expression that it reminded you of the sun breaking through storm clouds.

It had been so long since anyone had asked to spend time with you.

And your time—your energy—always felt so fleeting.

Still, with a shaky smile and a flutter of nerves in your chest, you nodded. Heat crept up your cheeks, embarrassing in its intensity. You worried—panicked, even. Would he find you dull? Would he regret inviting someone like you, someone who had nothing to offer except the remnants of a fading career?

You hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t.

You walked side by side with the stranger, whose name you now knew as Luci. His voice was light, brimming with enthusiasm as he shared bits of himself—his love for ducks, his daughter, his wife. You listened, half-focused, half-distracted by the echo of warnings ingrained in your mind: don’t follow strangers; it’s dangerous.

Yet, you wondered. If he were to hurt you, would it even matter?

You brushed the thought aside as his warmth began to melt your trepidation, his words weaving a strange sense of comfort around you. His anecdotes were simple, endearing, and as he spoke about his family, an ache blossomed deep in your chest.

Jealousy, sharp and bitter, coiled through you. What would it feel like to be loved like that? To be cherished so completely, so unconditionally?

Your thoughts strayed to your own parents, and you felt it again—the invisible noose tightening around your throat. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to yield. You forced a bright smile onto your face, desperate to focus on him, on his words, his expressive gestures, the way his eyes gleamed like cut gemstones catching the light.

Then he laughed, a sound so rich with joy that it seemed to chase away the cold clinging to you. He launched into a story about a duck-shaped toy that blew bath bubbles, one he had designed with his daughter. His animated retelling painted the chaotic scene vividly: bubbles everywhere, a floor turned slick, his wife caught between frustration and uncontrollable laughter as they all slipped and slid around like fools.

The genuine delight in his voice made something inside you stir, fragile but real. You clung to it, that warmth. It spread, tentative, but enough to pull a soft giggle from your lips.

Luci stopped mid-step, his eyes widening slightly before a wide, toothy grin overtook his face. “You have a beautiful laugh,” he said simply, with honesty that caught you off guard.

The compliment was unexpected, and you coughed, your cheeks igniting with heat. Your mind raced, urging you to say thank you, or anything at all to fill the awkward silence. But your lips refused to cooperate, frozen in uncertainty.

Before you could stumble over a response, Luci stopped in front of a small building—a café, its soft glow spilling out onto the street like a promise of warmth. Luci’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Ah, we’re here! I’ve heard they make the best banana nut muffin, so I wanted to try it before I go back!” He held the door open, the light catching his golden hair and the shimmer of his grin.

As he pushed open the door, the soft chime of a bell rang out—a gentle, almost musical sound, like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you, rich and warm, inviting you to linger. The walls were painted a soft pastel yellow, their brightness tempered by dim, cozy lighting that gave the café a feeling of safety, of comfort.

The space was intimate, and aside from you and Luci, it was empty. From the back emerged a stout woman with a radiant smile, her long black curls bouncing slightly as she walked. Her green apron was worn but clean, a testament to her work here. “Welcome!” she greeted warmly, her voice carrying the cheer of someone genuinely glad to see you. “What can I get ya folks?”

Luci turned to you, and with a grin, he asked, “Want a banana nut muffin?”

Your throat constricted slightly as you struggled to respond. A simple yes or no would have been enough, but your isolation had left you fumbling for basic social graces. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you could hear the sharp voice of your mother, her criticisms cutting deep. How unbecoming, her voice whispered in a memory you couldn’t quite escape.

You reached into your pocket for your wallet, your fingers clumsy with nerves. “L-let me p-pay,” you stammered, your voice cracking into something embarrassingly high-pitched.

Luci chuckled, a soft, disarming sound that somehow made the tension in your chest ease. He patted your shoulder, his touch brief but grounding. “It’ll be my treat, sport,” he said with a playful grin. “For the pack,” he added, waggling his brows in exaggerated humour.

Before you could protest further, he ordered two muffins and herded you to a table with two chairs in the corner. The space felt smaller as you followed, the warmth of the café suddenly claustrophobic under the weight of your thoughts.

Sitting across from him, you watched as he rummaged through his bag, his energy infectious. He pulled out a small stack of booster packs, his expression bright with unfiltered glee.

“These are my favourites,” he said as he held up a pack, his excitement as radiant as a child opening a long-awaited gift on Christmas morning. “I have all the cards from the first wave of Duck Battle releases!” His voice was filled with pride, his fingers already tearing into the foil wrapping. “I just had to come up here when I heard they released the second wave after two years!”

His words swirled in your mind, dissonant against the memories rising like a tide. Your hands, hidden under the table, clenched into fists. Your fingers dug into your palms, grounding you against the maelstrom of emotions.

You had drawn those silly ducks in their costumes, poured hours into creating gadgets, props, and absurd scenarios. Two hundred and fifty illustrations, each more uninspired than the last. You remembered the exhaustion, the growing sense of emptiness that swallowed you whole.

“What do you like about them?” you asked softly, your voice fragile. You cleared your throat, trying to sound steady as you felt an unwelcome wave of bitterness threatening to rise.

Luci’s blue eyes lit up as he looked up from the cards, his smile unguarded. “Oh, where do I even start!” he exclaimed, holding up a card to show you. “Aside from the fact that they’re ducks, just look at them! The costumes, the gadgets—they’re so clever, so fun!”

He turned the card in his hand, his admiration genuine, his joy untainted. And as he spoke, your chest tightened, caught between envy and a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of pride.

Luci held up a card, its surface shimmering with the golden foil that marked it as rare. Your eyes fell on the image—a duck in swimming trunks and sunglasses, wielding a sword alive with swirling water. The memory of creating it surged forward, unwelcome and sharp.

You remembered the day you drew that card. The day everything inside you cracked open. You had screamed into the hollow silence of your room, pages of drafts torn apart and scattered around you like confetti from some cruel, mocking parade. Your voice had grown raw as you told yourself, over and over, that you were done.

That you’d quit.

But quitting was a lie you couldn’t tell yourself for long.

The words of self-loathing had been relentless:

Everything you create is garbage.

This opportunity only exists because of your parents.

You’re a shadow, fading and inconsequential compared to their brilliance.

And yet, like some twisted masochist, you’d dragged yourself back to your desk the next morning.

There had been no joy in it—only pain. The siren call to create, once your solace, had become a piercing scream you couldn’t silence. The pencil in your hand had felt like a blade, its grip carving into you as you pushed yourself to the brink. Your fingers had cramped, the skin blistering until it split and bled.

You hadn’t stopped.

You couldn't.

Because drawing wasn’t just something you did—it was a part of you. An integral piece of your existence, impossible to sever, no matter how much you might have wanted to.

Now, that duck—a creation born from your anguish—stared back at you in Luci’s hands, a mirror of a piece of yourself you hated. His voice broke through the haze, brimming with enthusiasm as he babbled about the card, his words high with praise.

You should have felt pride. Gratitude. Joy, even. But you didn’t.

Instead, his praise slid over you, leaving nothing behind but the familiar ache of inadequacy. Why can’t I accept this?you thought bitterly. It was as if his words belonged to someone else, someone who deserved them.

Someone you were not.

So you smiled. Nodded. Pretended.

When the plate of banana nut muffin arrived, the scent of warm cinnamon wafting up, you glanced down at it. A dollop of whipped cream sat artfully on the side, dusted with cinnamon. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, yet the hunger that should have gnawed at you was absent, swallowed by a numbness you couldn’t quite shake.

Luci took a bite and moaned in delight, rolling his eyes dramatically. “This is absolutely delicious! Charlie would love this!” he said with a grin, taking another hearty bite. His joy was infectious, yet it stayed just out of reach for you.

He paused mid-bite, his expression sheepish as he pushed a booster pack across the table toward you. “Oh, golly! I should’ve had you open some with me,” he said with a laugh, gesturing to the small pile of torn foil and neatly stacked cards already in front of him.

You ran your thumb along the seam of the unopened pack, the texture sharp against your skin. “I don’t mind you opening them all,” you murmured softly, your gaze fixed on the faint silver glint of the packaging.

“Nonsense!” Luci declared, his grin bright and unwavering. “You might pull the ultra-rare Count Duckula! Come on, it’s all in the fun.”

He dragged his chair closer, the legs scraping lightly against the tiled floor. His knees bounced with childlike anticipation, a rhythm of barely contained excitement.

You forced a small smile, though your hands betrayed you, trembling as they fumbled with the pack’s edge. The foil tore with a soft rip, the sound somehow louder in the quiet café. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d opened one of these. The promotional box they’d sent you months ago sat untouched in some forgotten corner of your home, buried under stacks of other projects.

Carefully, you drew out the stack of six cards and flipped through them, revealing each one in turn.

All common - trash - cards.

How painfully typical.

“S-sorry,” you murmured, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. “It looks like I don’t have good luck. Maybe you should open the rest?”

“Nonsense,” Luci said again, his voice gentler this time. He reached out and took the cards from your hand with surprising care, as if each one were a delicate treasure. His expression softened as he studied them, pausing on a trio of ducks huddled together.

“I like this one the best,” he said, turning the card so you could see it more clearly.

The illustration stared back at you, the familiar design almost mocking in its simplicity. The card was called Duck Gang, but when you’d drawn it… you thought of...

“It’s like a family,” Luci murmured, his tone thoughtful as he turned the card back toward himself. “I already have forty-five of these, but I can’t help collecting them. They’re one of my favourites.”

Your chest tightened. The smile on your lips sharpened into something brittle, edged with bitterness. “T-that’s a lot,” you said, your voice cold, a contrast to the warmth in his. “You should consider selling them. They’re common, after all. Trash cards, really. Probably won’t get much for them.”

You picked up your fork and poked at the muffin on your plate, the sweetness of it utterly unappealing. The bitterness inside you, however, only grew, swelling like a tide threatening to pull you under. Your eyes flicked back to the card, the garish trio of ducks resembling parents and a child more than any sort of gang.

“I-I could get you all the rares,” you added, the words spilling out with a sharp edge. “If you'd like.”

Luci paused, his expression unchanging as he looked up at you. His ever-enigmatic demeanour shifted, and then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a warm, easy sound. A few golden strands slipped loose from his carefully styled hair, brushing against his cheek.

“The fun of it is in opening the packs and seeing what you get!” he said, reaching for another booster pack. He tore it open with practised ease, glancing through the cards until his face lit up like the sun breaking through a heavy storm.

“No way!” he gasped, holding up a foil-covered card with both hands. His blue eyes shimmered with delight, his toothy grin nearly splitting his face as he revealed the ultra-rare Count Duckula.

His reaction was so dramatic, so comically over-the-top, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something unexpected. In the small space of that quiet café, amidst the warmth of yellow walls and the scent of coffee, you felt something stir inside you.

Something warm.

Something… meaningful.

It wasn’t like the cold, impersonal emails you received from your agency, filled with spreadsheets and data points. Those soulless reports quantified your work with meticulous precision—what cards sold best, which ones fetched high prices, which ones were deemed worthless.

None of it ever reflected the time, the effort, or the pieces of yourself you poured into every illustration.

At some point, you’d begun to wonder: if you couldn’t draw, if you couldn’t find joy in creation, had you already reached your expiration date?

It was a morbid thought—one that clung to you like a shadow. But now, hilariously, pathetically, sitting across from Luci, a stranger you’d known for less than an hour, a flicker of something stirred. For the first time in a long time, you wanted to draw. Not for a paycheck, not for numbers on a spreadsheet, but simply because it might make someone else happy.

Because it might make him happy.

You almost laughed as you reached into your purse, finding the small drawing notepad you still carried. Half its pages were filled with scribbles—angry, chaotic lines etched so deeply they scarred the next page. Proof of countless attempts to destroy your own work, to obliterate the things you hated about yourself.

Flipping to the back, you grabbed a pen and hesitated.

“I, uh… if y-you don’t mind,” you stammered, your heart racing in your chest, “I-I could draw that trio of ducks for you?”

The words were out before you could stop them, and regret hit you like a wave. Why had you offered to draw something so… mundane? Why not Count Duckula, the ultra-rare? Why would a stranger even want your scribbles? Heat rose in your cheeks, and you forced a trembling smile as you flipped the notepad shut, shrinking into yourself.

You should take the muffin to go, you thought bitterly. Make your excuses and return to the solitude of your home where no one could see your failures.

Before you could muster the courage to leave, Luci slapped his hands to his cheeks, his eyes widening with delight. “Oh, are you an artist?” he asked, his voice brimming with wonder. He leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of pain, perhaps, or maybe it was just the light.

“I… guess I’m somewhat of an artist,” you mumbled, the words faltering as they left your lips.

He squealed like a delighted child, his feet tapping against the floor. Clasping his hands together, he grinned. “Can you draw a trio of ducks, but it’s Lucifer, Lilith, and their daughter?”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“That’s… an interesting request,” you murmured, tilting your head. Was he serious? Perhaps he was a Satanist? Would drawing demons as ducks count as blasphemy? And did Lucifer and Lilith even have a daughter?

“Uhm…” you hesitated, glancing up at his expectant face. His excitement was so genuine, so infectious, that you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. “Do you, uh, have a specific idea for how they should look, or…?”

“Oh no,” Luci waved a hand dismissively. “I’m more interested in how you envision them!”

Drawing from the dry well of your creativity felt like squeezing water from a stone. You started with the horns—predictable—and then added wings and a smattering of devilish details. The lines felt shaky, the proportions wrong, the designs uninspired.

The pen trembled in your hand as doubt crept in. This isn’t good enough, the voice in your head hissed. The shapes are off. The lines are wonky. The urge to scribble over the drawing, to obliterate it into oblivion, burned in your chest. You needed to start over.

Again and again.

Again. Until it was perfect.

Again. Until it was worthy.

You simply had to get better, do better, be better.

But Luci’s voice broke through the storm in your mind. “I love it!” he exclaimed, leaning so close you thought he might fall into the table. His eyes sparkled as he admired the doodle. “Oh, gosh, this is wonderful!”

Your throat tightened as you fought back tears. Why? Why did he like it? Couldn’t he see the flaws, the imperfections?

“Can I keep it?” he asked, his voice soft with a childlike eagerness.

You couldn’t speak. The words refused to come, so you gave him a faint nod, you tore the sheet of paper from your notepad, the sound sharp and final, and handed it to him with trembling fingers. Luci accepted it like it was the most precious thing in the world, holding it gently as if it might crumble in his hands. He studied your drawing with a small, wistful smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I really do… love it when humans create,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. The words seemed to carry more weight than they should, as though they held the remnants of a truth too fragile to speak aloud.

“Truly,” he added, his lower lip quivering. He cleared his throat quickly, blinking rapidly before replacing the moment of vulnerability with a wide, goofy grin.

Luci was an enigma. There was something off about him—an air, a presence—that felt out of place in your ordinary, grey world. It was as if he didn’t belong here, as if he were a splash of colour painted into a monochrome existence.

Perhaps...

...that was why you were drawn to him.

To the warmth he seemed to radiate so effortlessly. It was gentle, inviting, and for the first time in a long time, the relentless voices in your mind—the ones that berated you for every perceived failure—began to dim. Their harsh accusations softened to murmurs, then to silence.

Time blurred. The two of you sat there in the café, opening booster packs side by side. Cups of coffee were ordered and refilled, their rich aroma mingling with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon. The banana nut muffin you’d shared lingered on your tongue, a surprising comfort. The bell above the door tinkled softly as customers came and went, yet the world beyond your table felt distant, unimportant.

It was... odd.

But it wasn’t unpleasant.

Luci’s laughter, clear and joyful, broke through your defences. Each genuine compliment he gave, each silly comment, seemed to chip away at the invisible weight pressing down on you. By the time you reached the last booster pack, you felt lighter—like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as broken as you believed.

“You should open it,” Luci said, handing you the final pack. His grin was as bright as ever.

“I… don’t think I should,” you hesitated, glancing at the disappointing stack of cards you’d already opened. Your luck had been abysmal—nearly all duplicates, with the best being a single uncommon card.

“Oh, don't be a silly goose!” Luci declared, snapping his fingers with dramatic flair before pointing at the foil-wrapped pack in your hand. “I have a feeling you’re going to pull the ultra-super-rare card!” He nodded to himself, then added a playful wink that made you giggle despite yourself.

“Really?” you asked, your voice coloured with disbelief but softened by his contagious enthusiasm.

“Really,” he said with the conviction of someone who had already seen the future.

His persistence left you with little choice. “Alright,” you sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. You opened the pack, shuffling through the cards one by one until you froze.

Your breath caught in your throat.

There, in your hands, was the card.

The Angelic Duck.

Its pastel sky shimmered under the café’s light, the holographic wings moving as you tilted the card back and forth. You remembered the company mentioning this card—a one-in-a-million rarity, with only two released in the entire wave. It was surreal, almost impossible.

“See!” Luci beamed, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “You’re not unlucky, sweetie.” His voice softened, and his gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long. “Trust me.”

For a second, you felt his words meant something more than they seemed. That he wasn’t just talking about the card but about you. About the parts of yourself you couldn’t see, the worth you struggled to believe in.

But the feeling slipped away, ephemeral as sand through your fingers. It was wishful thinking.

Nothing more.

You wet your lips, hesitating, the words caught in your throat. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat deafening in your ears. Finally, you managed to whisper, “W-Will... could I see you again?”

His eyes flickered with surprise, and heat flooded your cheeks. You pressed on, stumbling over your words. “I-I could sh-show you around. If… if you’re not leaving right away.”

Your voice wavered, trembling under the weight of your certainty that he would say no. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? To ask something so personal of a stranger? Your body tensed, bracing for rejection, for the polite but distant smile, for the inevitable goodbye that would leave you sitting alone with nothing but your thoughts.

Luci paused, his brows knitting together, the cheerful light in his expression dimming ever so slightly. For the first time, his bright, untroubled smile faltered, casting a shadow on the radiance you had marvelled at moments ago.

You panicked, stumbling over your words. “I-it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice trembling with embarrassment. “I-if you’re busy, it’s...” You laughed softly, awkwardly, trying to ease the tension you felt growing between you. “It’s alright, really.”

But he shook his head almost immediately, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “N-no, no,” he said, his tone hesitant but earnest. “I… I’m sure I can extend my stay a little bit.”

You blinked, the breath catching in your throat as his words sank in. Then, slowly, you smiled. Not the kind of smile you had grown so accustomed to—a mask to hide the tumult of insecurities and self-loathing inside—but a real, unguarded smile.

It was a smile born from something tender and fragile, a memory of warmth long buried beneath years of disappointment.

It reminded you of the joy you felt when your parents had first framed one of your paintings, proudly displaying it for all to see.

It reminded you of painting freely as a child, the way you used to let your imagination spill onto the canvas without fear or doubt.

It reminded you of the times when creating wasn’t a burden but a blessing, a purpose you held close to your heart.

It was a smile you thought you had lost forever.

When you returned home after bidding Luci farewell at the café—his phone number now scrawled in your notepad—you immediately shivered. The icy chill of the wooden floors seeped into your bare feet, the house as unwelcoming as ever.

The space was barren, devoid of life or personality. Discarded papers littered the floor, mingling with pencil shavings and eraser bits. It wasn’t a home. It was a prison—a hollow shell where the bare necessities existed, but nothing more.

Your eyes caught the calendar hanging crookedly on the wall. A bold red X marked a date two days away, stark against the empty squares around it.

You stared at it, your stomach twisting. That day had been carefully planned. It was supposed to be the day.

But then you thought of Luci. Of his warmth, his light, and the promise you made to show him around. The thought of breaking that promise filled you with an unfamiliar pang of guilt.

Surely, a week longer would be fine… right?

Your fingers closed around a red marker that had laid lifelessly on the floor. Emotionlessly, mechanically, your hand hovered over December 26, a week from now, then moved with deliberate finality, slashing a thick red X over the date.

The pen clattered back to the floor as you dropped it, its sound echoing in the silence.

You turned to the cluttered table in the corner, the surface buried under half-finished sketches of ducks and crumpled ideas. With a heavy sigh, you sank into the chair, your head bowing as you stared at the blank page in front of you.

The company had asked for designs for their third wave of cards—450 different ones. An impossible task, but one you had taken on regardless.

Your hand hovered over the paper, but the creative well inside you was dry. Empty. Still, you pushed forward, forcing your pencil to move, if only to keep the ghosts at bay.

Because if you stopped—if you allowed yourself to pause—the memories would come rushing back. Memories of your parents and their loss.

Every stroke of the pencil felt like punishment, every failed attempt a reminder of the guilt you carried.

You weren’t creating. You were clawing at the past, trying to hold on to something that had long since slipped through your fingers.

It was torture.

It was hell.

But it was atonement.

Wasn't it?

The pencil felt heavier in your hand than it should have, its faded, rusted-red stains—a macabre memory of past desperation—serving as a quiet reminder of the nights you'd forced yourself, body and soul, into the art that held no meaning. You dragged its lead across the paper, each stroke tightening the invisible noose around your neck, suffocating and relentless, as though you were walking the gallows with your head bowed low, awaiting the final drop.

But then, something shifted. A tiny ember deep inside you flickered to life. It wasn’t much—just a faint warmth, a whisper of desire that whispered of blank canvases and fingers slick with the lush texture of oil paint.

That ember refused to extinguish, no matter how much you tried to snuff it out. Instead, it smouldered and grew, stubborn and unrelenting. With each passing moment, it began to consume you, stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving in its place a yearning you couldn’t fully understand, a desire to create again—not for the world, but for yourself.

The next day, you met Luci at the café, your tentative hope hidden beneath layers of polite conversation and practised smiles. You found yourself embellishing the truth as you spoke of your life, weaving together a tapestry of glamour and artistic success. He listened, nodding and laughing in all the right places, but his openness soon made you feel small for your half-truths.

Luci, in contrast, spoke of his family with a palpable fondness. He described his daughter Charlie - or Char Char - with a wry chuckle and a hint of exasperation, as only a loving father could.

But then your eyes caught the glint of his wedding ring, and the question slipped out before you could stop yourself. “How come your daughter and wife aren’t here with you?”

Luci froze, the piece of fruit crêpe halfway to his mouth. His cheeks flushed, and his gaze dropped, suddenly unable to meet yours.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, shrinking into yourself. “Forget I asked.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” He cleared his throat, forcing a shaky smile. “Char Char and I are… going through a rough patch. Teenagers, you know?” He nudged your shoulder lightly with his elbow, attempting a laugh that fell flat.

You gave him a weak smile in return, unsure how to respond.

“And Lili…” His voice faltered, his forced smile fading as his gaze fixed on some distant point on the ground. “Lili and I… we’re in a complicated situation, I guess.”

His shoulders slumped, and the crêpe in his hand tilted, sending a dollop of whipped cream tumbling to the pavement.

The sight of his sadness twisted something inside you. Acting on instinct, you reached out, placing your hand over his. “T-there’s a Duck Battle tournament today,” you blurted, your voice trembling. “Sh-shall we go see that?”

You didn’t know how to comfort someone. No one had ever taught you how. Love and admiration in your life had always been conditional, tied to your ability to produce something extraordinary. You had learned early on that when the art stopped, so too did the affection.

But as Luci blinked back unshed tears and gave you a small, grateful smile, nodding in agreement, you hoped—desperately—that this gesture, clumsy as it was, might bring him some solace.

The days passed, bringing you ever closer to December 26, the ominous red X on your calendar looming larger with each tick of the clock. In that time, you learned more about Luci.

Like you, he was an artist, his creativity moulded by the same soil of yearning and expression. But while you painted, he built—strange contraptions and devices, all themed around ducks. When he discovered you were the artist behind Duck Battle, his praise came in a flood, each word more sincere than any compliment you had ever received.

For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, his admiration felt different.

It felt… real.

You spent hours talking, sharing sweets, laughing over shared struggles. His presence warmed you in ways you hadn’t felt in years, filling an emptiness you hadn’t even realized was there. Perhaps it was loneliness that made every smile and fleeting touch so precious to you, but whatever the reason, you treasured those moments fiercely.

Three days before December 26, you did something you never imagined you would do.

You went to an art supply store.

You purchased a blank canvas, crisp and new. You unearthed your old easel from the depths of your supply closet, wiping away years of dust with trembling hands. And then, you bought a fresh set of oil paints, their vivid colours gleaming like precious jewels in their pristine tubes.

As you carried the supplies home, the ember within you flared, its warmth spreading through your chest. You weren’t sure what had changed, or why.

But for the first time in years, you felt… alive.

Every night, as if driven by some unseen force, you painted. Your hands moved with a desperate urgency, scraping vibrant colours across the canvas, colours that seemed so alive, so full of life—colours that you had once believed were lost to you. But now, as if the very act of creation had summoned them back, they flowed freely once again. You painted him—Luci—the way his golden silk hair had caught the light the first time you saw him, the way his sapphire eyes gleamed with kindness and warmth, the way his smile had made everything else fade into insignificance.

A smile tugged at your lips, mimicking his. The sound of the metal brush on canvas filled the room, a steady rhythm that echoed in the silence. You painted him not just as he appeared, but as the warmth he had ignited within you. Every stroke, every layer of colour, felt like a piece of your soul reawakening, a fragment of the person you thought you had lost forever. You wanted to give this to him—before he had to leave, before the days ran out.

As the colours blended and blossomed on the canvas, joy bubbled up within you, filling you with a warmth so sweet and intoxicating that it seemed to take over your very being. You wondered if he would be shocked, if he would be surprised by the depth of feeling you poured into the painting.

Would he cry?

Would he understand?

But you didn’t care. All you wanted, above all else, was for him to be happy with what you had created, for him to cherish it as something that came from the deepest part of you. You poured your heart, shattered and broken as it was, into each stroke, creating something beautiful out of the pieces that had once felt irreparably lost.

Perhaps it was inevitable, this warmth that had bloomed between you—this connection that had grown from the simplest of beginnings. Christmas day seemed to be the turning point, when you walked with Luci through the park, the air crisp and cold around you. The Christmas lights twinkled in all their colours, casting a soft glow across the snow-covered landscape, and the world felt like a dream. The snowflakes drifted down gently, catching the light like tiny stars, and everything seemed perfect—peaceful. You laughed at his silly stories, your voice mingling with the soft rustle of the falling snow.

But when the laughter subsided, when you found yourselves walking side by side, fingers brushing in the cold, something shifted. Something deep within you, something you hadn’t expected, bloomed like a flower in the quiet night. It was a palpable change, a feeling that went beyond friendship, beyond the strange bond that had formed over Duck Battle cards.

His hand brushed yours, and without thinking, you curled your fingers around his, tightening your grip, clinging to the warmth he offered. His hand squeezed back.

You didn’t realize how desperately you had needed this connection until it was there, alive and pulsing between the two of you.

Even when you reached your door, when the moment to say goodbye loomed, neither of you let go. Your fingers remained intertwined, stubbornly, as if neither of you was ready to let the moment end.

“It’s cold outside,” you murmured shyly, your voice soft, almost timid, as you tugged him closer to you, stepping back until your back was pressed against the door.

“Yea, i-it is,” Luci whispered, his breath visible in the frigid air. His presence seemed to fill the space between you, his warmth a contrast to the chill that surrounded you both.

Despite the coldness of his wedding ring pressing against your skin, despite the knowledge that this was wrong, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. You didn’t want to. There was something undeniable between you, something that drew you both together, like the pull of gravity itself.

And then, as the door creaked open, Luci’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you down to him. His kiss was firm, urgent, and it burned with a fierce need, a desire that neither of you could ignore. It was quick, instinctual, the rush of bodies and breath as you both succumbed to the moment, letting go of everything—of doubts, of fears, of the consequences that would come after.

In that kiss, in the way his body pressed against yours, there was no more space for regret, for hesitation. You both indulged, fully and without restraint.

And in that moment, you...

...and him...

His lips, warm and insistent, traced the curve of your jaw, the soft, heated pressure sending shivers down your spine. The world felt suspended in time as he moved lower, his mouth gliding over the delicate skin of your neck, his breath a soft, intoxicating warmth. The surrounding space was filled with discarded clothes, the remnants of passion now tainted with the weight of guilt—of something that could never be, yet you both gravitated toward it nonetheless. Your back pressed against the cold wooden floor, contrasting the heat building between your legs. Your hands lay helplessly on your chest, not knowing where to place them, unsure how to ground yourself in a moment that felt so wrong and yet, so deeply, desperately right.

His lips continued their descent, a slow, deliberate path toward the apex of your thighs, each touch igniting a fire deep within you. There were no words—none spoken, none needed—because any utterance would break the fragile illusion between you, the delicate balance of a sin too dangerous to acknowledge.

He has a daughter.The thought was distant, almost unreal, a fleeting notion as his tongue traced a slow, agonizing path between your folds. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, the sound of it muffled by the overwhelming sensation of him, of the way his mouth and tongue moved against your skin.

Your chest rose and fell with each breath, heavy, desperate, as the cold moonlight spilled through the half-circle window above the door, casting an ethereal glow on the scene below. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling lazily, like snowflakes drifting in the still air. They mocked you, a silent reminder of the falsity of this moment, a moment so desperately wrong—and yet...

He has a wife, you thought in sudden dismay, as the reality of the situation crashed in once more. His head lifted, eyes half-lidded, the remnants of your taste lingering on his lips. His wedding ring gleamed, cold and out of place, as he slipped two fingers inside you, the fourth finger encased in the cool metal pressing against your heated skin. The dichotomy of it all—of this stolen moment and the life he had outside this room, outside of you—twisted something inside you. His fingers moved slowly, deeply, each thrust deliberate, drawing lewd, wet noises that mingled with your breath, filling the room with the unmistakable sounds of desire.

You gasped again, your hand instinctively covering your lips, the pressure of it barely able to contain the sounds of pleasure that slipped through. The way his fingers found the perfect rhythm, the way his touch coaxed you closer and closer to the edge, your eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open. Every touch, every press, felt like it was drawing you to a peak too quickly, too easily.

"A-ah..." The sound was barely a whisper, your breath catching as his lips descended again, his mouth on your clit now, ravaging, relentless. His tongue flicked and teased, making your body tremble, your breath quickened with a desperation you couldn't control. His moan was low, guttural, and it only spurred you on, the pressure building to an unbearable crescendo.

One last, powerful suck before he withdrew. Your vision blurred as you were dangerously on the precipice of falling. He stood over you, his cock hard and gleaming with pre-cum, the moonlight catching it just so, marking it as the final sin in this forbidden encounter.

You hadn’t even made it past the foyer—the door still unlocked, the peephole an unblinking eye, silently condemning you. It was too much to bear, too much to reconcile with the reality of it all, yet you couldn’t pull away, couldn’t stop yourself from tracing his bare chest with your eyes. His skin, smooth and flawless, seemed almost sculpted from marble, a perfection that should never have been so close to you. The thought flitted through your mind, If I were to paint this..., how would I capture the colour of him?

But then, in the depths of your gaze, his blue eyes flashed—just for a moment—blurring into two crimson rubies, gleaming with something darker, something possessive. It was gone before you could make sense of it, just an illusion, a trick of the light, or maybe of your own spiralling mind.

Luci hovered over you, his body trembling with restraint as the tip of his cock, weeping with need, pressed against the raw, desperate part of you. His lips brushed against yours, gentle, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the storm building between you. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, as your legs curled around his waist, aching for the connection that only this moment of raw vulnerability could offer.

You needed him—needed this closeness that was both comforting and terrifying, the warmth of his skin against yours, the desperate push for something deeper, something more than just physical.

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch, thick with hesitation. His gaze was distant, clouded with something you couldn't quite read. But then, with a quiet breath, you pressed your heels into his lower back, urging him forward, urging him to bridge the gap between you. To finally give in. His eyes fluttered shut, and in that instant, he took the plunge.

The feeling of him filling you—filling you completely—was overwhelming, a rush of sensation so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. A sharp gasp escaped you, and tears sprang to your eyes, the sting of both pleasure and the emptiness that came with it. You searched for him, for his eyes, for the depth of connection that had drawn you to him in the first place. His blue eyes, vast and endless like the sky and sea, should have been there to anchor you, but they were gone, hidden behind the veil of his closed lids.

His face dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath uneven, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that bordered on frantic. His hips rocked into you with a steady, punishing pace. The feeling of his skin against yours, the heat building between you, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, each one more intense than the last. But it wasn't enough—not enough to fill the emptiness that gnawed inside you, not enough to keep the bond you thought you'd found from slipping away.

The front of his hips slapped against your sensitive clit, pulling strangled cries from your throat, but as each thrust drove deeper, the warmth you had so desperately craved began to cool. The connection you thought you'd felt—the intimacy, the closeness—seemed to flicker and fade, slipping between your fingers like sand. You grit your teeth, your chest tight with the panic of losing something so fragile, and you willed it to stay, to drown you, to anchor you in this moment, in this feeling.

With everything you had, you opened yourself up, all of it—the vulnerability, the insecurities, the need for more, for him, for this. Open, open, open...

"L-Luci," you whispered, your voice thick and hoarse, a near sob caught in your throat. "Luci..." The words, laced with want, with desperate need, tangled in your chest, lodged there like barbed wire. All you could do was cry out his name, over and over, until it became a broken prayer.

His hips moved faster, harder, each thrust sending you sliding across the floor beneath him, your hair a tangled mess as his fingers wrapped around your strands, pulling you closer, deeper into the frenzied heat. But even then, his eyes never opened. He never responded to your cries, never acknowledged the way your body trembled beneath him, the way you shattered, piece by piece, beneath the weight of your desire and disappointment.

He never looked at you when you broke.

And when he finally shattered above you, his body collapsing against yours, it was as though the connection you had so desperately wanted, the bond you had yearned for, never existed beyond your mind. It was never real. Just a fleeting moment, a whisper in the dark. A hope unfulfilled, a dream never meant to be.

Like the countless paintings you had created, destroyed, and burned.

Your breath and his were sharp, uneven, a discordant rhythm echoing in the silence between you. Your hands, once gripping him with desperate need, slipped away, falling limply to your sides as though they no longer knew their place. Luci pulled away from you slowly, his body trembling, his seed spilling from you, staining the space between you both. He knelt in the mess of discarded clothes, panting, his eyes distant and hollow, as if he had lost something vital in the moment. His lips quivered, but no words came.

There was nothing but the heavy silence, thick and suffocating.

You stared at him, eyes wide, searching for something—anything—in his expression, but all you found was an emptiness, a vastness that seemed to stretch endlessly. He stared upward, his gaze unfocused, as though trying to see beyond you, beyond this moment, beyond everything that had just transpired.

“Lu—” Your voice cracked on his name, raw and trembling. You could barely speak, the words suffocated by the weight of everything you felt. Your body, exposed and bare, felt fragile, as if the barest breath would shatter you. Your heart felt like it was lying open before him, brittle and vulnerable, delicate as glass.

“Oh God.” Luci’s voice was broken, strained with something you couldn’t name. His hands dropped to his face, the yellow band on his wedding finger blinking erratically—mocking the turmoil in his mind. “Oh God,” he whispered again, his voice trembling, thick with pain. It was a pain that mirrored your own, something raw, something impossible to put into words.

You couldn’t look away. You glanced around the room, eyes falling to the discarded clothing that lay strewn about, evidence of what had happened, the evidence of what you had done. His seed pooled beneath you, mixing with your own body, your own shame. The sight burned in your chest, a raw, aching grief that gnawed at you from the inside. Slowly, you pulled yourself upright, curling your knees to your chest, your arms wrapping around your body as though you could protect yourself from the brokenness of it all.

You had slept with a married man.

A father.

A man who had a life—who had a family.

That bond you thought you felt?

It wasn’t real, was it?

It was a lie. Empty. Hollow. Just like his praises. Just like the smiles that never reached his eyes.

Your vision blurred with tears, and the weight of everything—the regret, the loss, the crushing shame—became too much. You blinked, trying to push the pain back, but it was impossible. With shaky hands, you began to collect his clothes, each article a weight added to the burden of your guilt. The silence in the room was oppressive, heavy with the unspoken truth. Regret hung in the air like a cloud, suffocating you both.

“L-Luci,” your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse from unshed tears. You looked at the pile of his discarded clothes, waiting in the silence between you. “I—I’m s-sorry.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth, but they were all you had. “I... I still want to...” Your lips parted, but the words caught, tangled in the emotion that flooded you. You searched his face, your eyes desperate for any sign that he was still there, that you hadn’t lost him completely. You didn’t want him to leave you.

Loneliness crushed you in a way you had never known. It was suffocating, cold, all-encompassing. And the warmth of another, even one that was so fleeting, only made the emptiness in your chest worse.

"I... I should go," Luci muttered, his voice strained, almost detached. He rushed to pull on his clothes, fumbling with the buttons, his usually pristine attire now a wrinkled mess. His hair, once neatly styled, now fell haphazardly across his face, a chaotic reflection of the scene that had just unfolded. He looked so different from the man who had once seemed so certain, so confident.

"Wi... Will I see you again?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, fragile, unsure.

He stopped for a moment, his body tense, the air between you thick with unspoken words. Then, with a forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he answered, "I... maybe, kiddo." The nickname he used when you were nothing more than strangers, back when you hadn’t known the depths of each other.

Or maybe, you thought, we were always just strangers.

You had never reached his heart.

"Okay," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion, still raw, still exposed, your bare body aching in the emptiness he left behind.

Without another word, without a second glance, he left you there. The door clicked shut softly, the sound echoing in the hollow space between you, sealing the finality of it all.

A suffocating silence filled the room. You sat there, numb, your mind a whirlwind of confusion and hurt, unsure of what to do next. The isolation crept in, slowly at first, then all at once. It filled you with disgust, with shame, and worst of all, with self-hatred.

It grew.

It grew, like a poisonous vine wrapping around your chest, tightening with each breath, until it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

The weight of it became unbearable. Your heart pounded, each beat louder, more frantic than the last. Your hands gripped your hair, yanking at the strands, pulling, anything to escape the suffocating feelings. You pressed your lips together tightly, stifling the screams, the sobs that fought to escape.

"A-ah..." your voice cracked, trembling as the floodgates finally opened, hot tears spilling down your face, mingling with the remnants of what had happened.

You ruined it.

You ruined everything.

Once again.

You ruined it.

Everything you touched, everything you let yourself believe in, it was worthless. Everything you were... it was all for nothing.

Do better.

Get better.

Be better.

And if you couldn’t?

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, the passage of time lost in the haze of your broken thoughts. Long enough for the evidence of your mistake, of your sin, to cool against your skin, to harden like the guilt inside you. Slowly, numbly, you stood, your body heavy with shame, and began to dress yourself. Each piece of clothing felt like another layer of self-loathing being added, an attempt to cover up the truth that had been laid bare.

But no matter how many layers you put on, you couldn’t hide the emptiness inside.

You wandered aimlessly through your house, your feet carrying you without purpose until your gaze landed on the painting of him. His blue eyes stared back at you, gleaming with an intensity that seemed to hold you captive. The clothes he wore when you first met—the ones from that day at the café—were captured so perfectly, so vividly. His smile was gentle, warm, as though it could melt away every bit of the coldness inside you. But as you stared, the painting felt like nothing more than a pale imitation of him, a sad mockery of the person you thought you knew.

Hot tears welled in your eyes, then spilled over, trickling down your face like a silent confession. You could almost hear it, distant and fading—his voice praising you, his words of encouragement when you drew the silly ducks for him. The memory was a soft echo, a reminder of something you thought was real.

A part of you, a pathetic, desperate part, still clung to the hope that maybe—just maybe—you could make things right. You grabbed the portrait, cradling it like a fragile lifeline, and dashed toward your car. You didn’t know what you were hoping for, what you thought you could fix, but you were sure, naive in your belief, that there was still a chance.

Once inside the car, your hands gripped the steering wheel, and the engine hummed to life, the vibration beneath you a stark contrast to the numbness that had settled in your chest. But as you shifted in the seat, you paused.

You hadn’t even asked where he was staying. Every time you met, it was somewhere public, somewhere neutral—a park, a café, a random point of interest. Your gaze drifted to the passenger seat, where the painting sat.

It was incomplete.

It was imperfect.

It was worthless.

Would he even want it?

Would he even want you?

No. You had to believe he did. He told you he liked your work. He said it with that genuine smile, that warmth in his voice. Before he knew your name, before he knew you were the artist behind the silly card game—he liked you. He was kind to you. You clung to that truth like a lifeline, like it could save you from the crushing weight of the doubt beginning to swallow you whole.

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking as you dialed his number, hoping for something—anything—that would make sense of this mess. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow, as the phone rang.

But then, the words came. The voice on the other end was cold, indifferent, and robotic. "I’m sorry, the number you are trying to dial is not available..."

Confusion bloomed in your chest. Maybe you’d dialed it wrong. So you tried again. And again. Each time, the same dispassionate voice greeted you, the same unfeeling message cutting through your fragile hope.

It couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t.

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen, hearing the repetitive, cold message before it faded into the silence of your car. The hum of the engine, the quiet drip of your tears, it all felt distant—unnerving.

You didn’t turn off the ignition. The weight of everything felt too heavy to move, to even breathe.

And then you saw it—the clock on your phone, a cruel reminder that it was December 26th. Midnight had passed.

Your hand hovered near the keys for a moment, but it fell limp, back into your lap, like your body was too exhausted to hold on. The air in the car grew thick, suffocating, as you opened the window, and the smell of gasoline filled your nostrils.

You didn’t look away. Your eyes never left the phone, not even as it dimmed, not even as it reflected the face of a girl—broken, bruised by her own thoughts, who had given up too much.

“Did you really think he would like your painting?” The voice echoed in your mind, louder now, sharper than before. It wasn’t a thought—it was a command, a judgment.

You closed your eyes, tears slipping from beneath your lids as the air grew heavier, thicker with every breath you took.

“Did you really think any of this was real?” the voice asked again, a question, an accusation.

“No…” you whispered, your voice breaking, your hands covering your ears in a futile attempt to shut out the truth. But it didn’t work. The voice was clearer than ever, its presence suffocating you from all sides.

Tears flowed freely now, your body wracked with silent sobs as you clung to the empty hope that you could somehow make things right. But you knew, deep down, that you were only fooling yourself.

“You’re nothing without your parents,” the voice whispered cruelly, slicing through the silence like a blade.

“They shouldn’t have ever given birth to you,” it continued, each word dripping with venom.

“A worthless investment,” it droned on, the words echoing, growing louder, more suffocating.

The voice, harsh and mocking, grated against your ears, each syllable sharp and jagged. Your body trembled, your breath shallow and erratic as tears spilled down your face, your chest heaving in desperate gasps. The pain was raw, like a wound that would never heal, and still, the voice mocked you, relentless.

When you finally opened your eyes, the sight that greeted you was more than you could bear. The shadows of your parents stood before your car, looming figures bathed in the dim light, their forms indistinct, yet painfully familiar.

Your father’s voice rang out, his laughter echoing in the hollow air. “Look at my girl, look how talented she is!” The words were coated with a false warmth, but the undertone was sharp, a mocking cruelty that only deepened the ache inside you.

Your mother joined in, her voice a saccharine hum that made your insides twist. “I knew her artistic talent ran in the family. We’re so proud of you, winning first prize again!” Her praise, once a balm, now felt like a blade, each word a reminder of everything you couldn’t be.

“M-mom… d-dad,” you croaked, your voice weak, barely a whisper. Another cough wracked your lungs, the pain seizing them as the car’s engine continued to rumble beneath you, as if it, too, was trapped in the crushing weight of this moment.

Your father’s tone shifted, turning cold and distant. “What happened? Why aren’t you working harder?” His disappointment was palpable, the sharp edge of his words digging into you. “It’s like you don’t care.” He turned away from you, his back a final, unforgiving gesture.

“N-no, d-dad,” you pleaded, your voice breaking, raw and desperate. “I’ll try harder. I’ll be first always, always. Just… just don’t leave me.” Tears streamed down your face, an unstoppable flood of regret and shame. “I’m sorry, I’m so-sorry…” The words spilled from your lips, but they felt hollow, like they could never be enough.

“Where did I go wrong?” Your mother’s voice cracked, her sorrow sharp, cutting through you like a jagged edge. “I gave you the best tutors, the best supplies, and you lost—lost to that… that no-name kid?” Her voice shook with guilt, her sobs breaking the air. “It was my fault, my fault.”

Your own voice climbed, a shrill, desperate scream that tore at your throat. “It’s not—" you gasped, choking on the words, "It’s not your fault! I’ll do better, I’ll get better, I’ll be better,” you begged, your body convulsing with the force of your sobs. “Just don’t—don’t leave me!” Your voice cracked as the tears continued to pour, your breath ragged, your heart screaming for salvation, for release.

Your memories, each one a fractured shard of your past, flashed before your eyes like ruined paintings—each one marred by angry, black streaks, defiled, violated. Your art, your passion, each one shattered beyond repair. One by one, they fell apart, until…

Until Luci’s face appeared, burned into your mind with a cruel, unrelenting clarity. His eyes were wide, filled with pure agony, regret, disappointment, and sadness—emotions that mirrored your parents’ gazes, emotions that haunted you endlessly.

You saw it.

You felt it.

Over and over again, the repetition of regret, of loss, of failure. It all crashed down on you like a tidal wave, drowning you in its weight.

“Ah… ah…” you gasped, your words strangled in your throat, each breath a labour, each sob a crude edge of a dagger. The overwhelming wave of emotions consumed you, suffocated you, until…

The void you had poured over your art, the darkness that had swallowed every ounce of your soul, finally consumed you. It was an endless abyss, engulfing everything whole—your thoughts, your dreams, your very existence.

Ah...

There was beauty in darkness, wasn’t there? A beauty so pure, so suffocating, that it consumes every breath, every thought, every ounce of life you had once clung to.

You had been told it over and over again, like a cruel promise whispered into your soul. And now, here you are, standing at the edge of it all. You have finally reached the pinnacle of your existence.

The word settles over you like a heavy shroud, cold and unforgiving, a final verdict on everything you have ever been. All that you were, all you had hoped to become, is swallowed by the abyss. There is no turning back now. There is no room left for redemption, no space for regret, no lingering chance for salvation.

It is over.

The truth cuts deeper than you ever imagined. The ache in your chest is not just sorrow—it is the emptiness of everything finally falling away, leaving you hollow, unimportant. A fleeting, insignificant speck in a universe that does not care, that will not remember.

You feel the last of your strength slipping away, the slow, inevitable pull of nothingness dragging you under.

No more struggles. No more cries for help. No more hopes.

Just... nothing.

And in that stillness, you are gone, as if you had never existed at all.