Hi! I'm Sean... I own a ghostface bag, hair clip, wallet, 2 shirts, blanket, a photo of me with skeet ulrich and melissa barerra, 2 plushies, a temporary tattoo thats on my wall, poster, and too many stickers... (i am a simple man. i see ghostface. i spend money.)
HYPERFIXATED ON: RED DEAD REDEMPTION!!!
I'm an eclectic pagan and I use he/they pronouns.
stopped liking hazbin and helluva because i quickly realized it was turning into 2024's dsmp and i was one of the kucky ones that didnt have a dsmp phase and i am into escaping this
I love Ghostface, Charles Smith, Jeremy Jordan, Death Note, Resident Evil, art, and general stupidity.
Spotify playlist: (ignore the name i made it after i bleached my hair)
You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 3
PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader
SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.
WORD COUNT: 8.3k
NOTES: warning! this user has found the "I told you things x sign of the times mashup" in under extreme distress and this is the result, proceed with caution. lol
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part 2 | MASTERLIST | part 4
Zayne remembered the wedding day a little too well for his own good.
He supposed time should've worn the memory down to softened corners by now, smudged it enough that he could tuck it into a drawer and only take it out when the mood struck. But instead, it lingered—sharp and vivid, like a cold shard of glass buried beneath the skin.
The horrendous décor. The invitations sent out to a sea of strangers—names he hadn’t heard before, faces he didn’t recognize, smiles that felt too wide, too fake. The clatter of wine glasses and artificial laughter echoing off the marbled walls. Everything reeked of excess and performance. He had stood there, stiff in a suit tailored too tight at the neck, like he was being prepped for sacrifice instead of celebration.
Golds and reds clashing in chaotic flourish, floral arrangements overstuffed to the point of suffocation. He remembered the way his mother had looked around the hall with polite horror veiled under a scientist's clinical assessment, her jaw clenched just enough for him to notice. His father had muttered something under his breath and promptly stepped outside. Neither of them had to say it aloud. He knew what they were thinking.
This wasn’t what they had agreed to.
This wasn’t what you had wanted.
But Zayne had held his tongue. Bit down on every scathing remark that burned behind his teeth. For decorum. For diplomacy. And most of all—for you.
Only because she was your mother.
He’d told himself that—repeatedly, like a prayer.
Only because she was your mother.
And then the music had shifted.
A hush rippled through the crowd like a tide pulling back, and the world slowed on its axis as you appeared—poised, back straight, bouquet clenched too tightly in your trembling hands.
Zayne had always imagined what it might feel like, watching you walk toward him.
He had foolishly thought it would be a moment filled with light, with heart-pounding anticipation and a reckless sort of hope.
But all he felt was dread. Guilt. A hollow ache he couldn’t name.
Because when he saw you, he felt the weight of everything you weren’t saying.
Even that god-awful dress—clearly not your choice, all lace and shine and suffocating tradition—couldn’t disguise the truth of you. You looked like a doll dressed for display.
And still.
Still, nothing could dare to compromise the beauty of your visage.
Your presence cut through the garish backdrop like a moon through polluted skies. Something pure. Sacred.
When you drew nearer to him. He froze.
Your face.
Your makeup had been done with flawless precision, not a speck out of place. But Zayne's gaze, honed by years of clinical observation, saw beneath the foundation. Saw through it.
A foreboding shape of a handprint—subtle but unmistakable—was ghosted across your cheekbone. A bruise that hadn’t had time to fully bloom, but hadn’t been entirely erased either.
Even though your smile was wide enough to please the lenses pointed your way. But your eyes—
Your eyes were dull.
Dull in that way a candle is dull when someone cups it with both hands and suffocates the flame.
You looked like you were walking toward your funeral, not your wedding.
And something in him cracked open.
The doctor in him was alert immediately—assessing, diagnosing, filing away invisible symptoms and silent alarms. He wanted to ask you how long ago it happened. Whether you felt dizzy. Whether you’d eaten. Whether the ringing in your ears had stopped yet.
But the man in him—the man who had spent nights watching you fall asleep across a screen, who had read every text you’d deleted before sending, who had learned to read the way your hands clenched when you were about to cry but didn’t want to—that man wanted to take your hand and run.
He wanted to pull you out of that aisle and into the nearest cab. He wanted to ask you:
What happened?
What do you truly want?
Why do you keep quiet?
Who did this to you?
But he already knew the answer to the last one.
And he knew he couldn’t act on any of it.
Not there. Not in front of the crowd. Not while your mother sat in the front row with her regal, poisoned smile and her power held tight in fists gloved in silk.
You would’ve lost face.
And he couldn’t have that. You wouldn’t suffer because of him—that, at least, he could promise.
So he swallowed it all.
He stood steady when your hand was placed in his. He didn’t flinch when you looked up at him with eyes that begged him not to make a scene. He let you lean on him, barely, as if your knees had gone weak, and maybe they had.
And as he whispered the two ceremonial words, slid the ring onto your shaking finger, Zayne’s heart was not present in that moment. It was elsewhere.
Running.
Raging.
Screaming silently behind his ribs.
But he said nothing.
He kissed you the way one kisses a photograph etched in fond memories—gentle, reverent, already grieving.
And the only thought that pulsed through his mind, louder than the music, louder than the applause, louder than the cameras clicking, was this:
Some people really don’t deserve to be parents.
Once again, the clink of cutlery against porcelain is the only sound in the dining room. A delicate, almost domestic kind of silence. Not cold, not tense—just... new. Hesitant. Like something wounded learning how to walk again.
It’s the second meal you’ve shared at the same table. No space between you filled with text messages to distract you. No carefully crafted "not-hungry-right-now" escape. You’re here. Present. Dressed simply, no makeup, your hair in the lazy knot you wear when you're not trying to impress anyone.
And Zayne... he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.
Not the way he used to watch you from across rooms, trying to memorize the shape of your loneliness and pretending it wasn’t his fault. No, today there's something... quieter about him. Subdued. A man studying light through stained glass, afraid to reach out in case it vanishes.
You eat your rice slowly, methodically, as if chewing gives you purpose. The scent of cumin and roasted garlic fills the air—Zayne had cooked. Again. The food wasn’t fancy, but it was warm, thoughtful. He even remembered you don’t like coriander leaves in your food, which you had only mentioned once, in passing, over two years ago.
That fact alone sits in your throat harder than the food.
“I was thinking,” Zayne begins, his voice startling in the hush, “maybe we could repaint the hallway.”
You blink. Swallow.
“The color’s starting to chip,” he adds, shrugging like it's no big deal. Like it’s not the first suggestion he’s made in weeks that begins with “we” and ends with the future.
Your spoon hovers mid-air.
“Sure,” you say. You don’t sound convincing, but you don’t sound hostile either. And maybe that’s enough for him today.
He’s quiet for a moment, then exhales—relieved, maybe. Like that single word gave him permission to hope. His posture relaxes slightly, one elbow braced on the table, his thumb brushing idly against his lower lip.
You look at his hands. You always used to look at his hands. So steady, so precise. Doctor hands. Capable of cutting into people and healing them all the same. Scarred and flawed but so pretty. You used to wonder how gentle they could be when they weren’t holding scalpels or stethoscopes. When they held you.
You miss that without wanting to.
“I can call someone to do it,” he adds. “Or we could pick out the color together. If you’d like.”
He’s looking at you with that cautious spark again—like you’re something delicate he’s trying to coax out of hiding. And it should feel sweet, hopeful even.
But instead it makes your chest tighten with an unbearable grief.
Because it’s too late.
You put your fork down slowly. The ceramic click it makes, sounds like a decision.
He notices right away. That sharp, intuitive stillness in him returns.
“What is it?” he asks, voice low.
You don’t mean to ruin the moment.
You really don’t. But something inside you rebels at the way he’s talking—as if the future is something you both get to imagine now. As if a meal, one shared glance, one tentative truce is enough to erase three years of aching silence and missed opportunities.
So you say it. Gently, but clearly.
“I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes.”
The words land like a thunderclap across the table.
For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The shift is invisible but seismic. A drop in barometric pressure you feel in your bones. The air sharpens. The room shrinks.
He looks at you like you just said something blasphemous. Like you’ve just stabbed a knife through the script he’s been quietly rewriting for the two of you.
“What?” he asks. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief, wrapped in glass.
You look down at your plate.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” you say, forcing your voice to stay level. “I think it would be easier, you know? Once everything’s settled. A clean break. Start fresh. It wouldn’t be right to stay.”
“You wouldn’t be staying,” he says, his voice suddenly taut. “You’d be living. In your house. With your—”
“Soon-to-be ex-husband?”
The words taste bitter. You hate how cruel they sound. You didn’t mean to twist the knife. You just wanted to say the truth. Clean. Simple. Without all this wreckage.
Zayne pushes his chair back with a quiet scrape.
He stands, but not like he usually does—graceful, precise, self-contained. No, this is different. There’s tension in his limbs. Unspent energy. His fists clench and release at his sides.
He takes one breath.
Then another.
You don’t dare look at him.
“I thought…” he starts, then stops. His voice is too calm. It’s the kind of calm you only hear right before the ice beneath your feet cracks. “I thought we were doing better.”
You wince. You can’t help it.
“We’ve had lunch together twice in three years,” you say, too quietly. “That doesn’t mean we’re better. It just means… I’m tired of this.”
“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’ve already decided?”
You nod, barely trusting your voice.
Across from you, Zayne’s whole body stiffened.
His eyes lift slowly, as though he'd been waiting for your deflection with the same quiet patience he’s always used to weather your distance. His gaze is heavy. Sharp. It holds a quiet gravity that pins you where you sit. There’s no space to duck your head or fiddle with your napkin or pretend you didn’t just offer up a coward’s escape.
You force yourself to meet it. And regret it instantly.
The weight of his eyes is unbearable. Not for what they accuse, but for what they offer. No anger. No reproach. Only that soul-baring stillness you’ve been running from for years.
He tilts his head ever so slightly. A sigh curls beneath his breath.
He advances slowly, his movements fluid and unhurried, like he’s afraid to startle you. Like you’re a bird on the edge of bolting from the table. He reaches for the plates—his and yours—stacking them with a care that feels at odds with the way your pulse has begun to pound.
And then—
He leaves them in the sink.
You stare at the dishes as if they’ve personally offended you. Because—he never does that. Not once in three years of walking on eggshells around each other. Zayne always washed and dried and stacked everything back in its rightful place before bed. Quiet order, tidy structure, a kind of control that helped him survive the messier things he didn’t speak about. But now?
The dishes sit in the sink, unattended, like he couldn’t care less what breaks anymore.
You swallow down the unease rising in your throat.
“I believed that holding back and giving you space was better for you,” he says, his back to you, hands braced on the countertop. His voice is low, layered with something raw. “So that you could breathe. So that you might feel like this house belonged to you too. That you might consider me…”
He turns slowly, the words trailing into silence until they settle between you like dust.
“…your husband.”
His eyes are not intense now. They’re tender. Devastatingly so. And you hate him for it—for knowing the exact tone that could unravel you. For speaking like the man you once imagined in your future instead of the one you’ve been braving in the present.
You say nothing. You don’t move. The only sound is the quiet hum of the city seeping in through the windows. A world still spinning outside the implosion of yours.
“But I realize now…” His voice returns, softer, more certain. “That was the wrong way to go about it. What I should have done instead was occupy your space. Invade your mind the way you’ve invaded mine. And made damn sure you knew it.”
He crosses the room in measured steps—each one a declaration, a breach, a reclaiming.
And then suddenly—he’s in front of you.
His arms come down to either side, hands braced on the table, trapping you in. Not violently. Not even aggressively. But in a way that commands. That says: I am done being polite about wanting you.
Your breath hitches. The heat from his body seeps into yours, uninvited. You are far too aware of the difference in your height. The way you have to look up to meet his gaze. The way the nearness sharpens every nerve ending along your spine.
You drop your gaze, too suddenly, to the middle button of his shirt.
Zayne doesn’t miss it.
You hear it before you feel it—a sigh, long and quietly exasperated, falling from his mouth. It isn’t angry, not quite. It’s weary. Like he’s been walking through a blizzard in nothing but the hope that you’d look at him.
“Look at me.”
His voice carries a command now. Not loud, but low and unwavering, wrapped in something that has long outgrown patience.
Your jaw tightens. You feel it all the way to your molars.
And so—just to spite him—you let your eyes drop further. Past his shirt, past the belt at his waist, all the way down to his shoes.
Pristine, polished shoes. Of course they’re polished.
You want to scream.
He says your name again, quieter this time. But it lands with the weight of a hammer. You feel him watching your every breath like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your defiance.
“Look at me,” he says again, and this time the restraint in his tone is fraying at the edges. “I will not ask again.”
How dare he?
Where was this conviction when you cried yourself to sleep on nights he didn't come home? When you sat alone in his office? When the silence stretched between your bedrooms like a chasm neither of you dared cross?
You glare harder at his shoes. Furious. Silent. Glued to your stubbornness.
And then—
Without a word, his hands find your waist. His grip is firm but reverent, like you are breakable but he’s done pretending not to want to touch you. In one swift motion, he lifts you. Sets you on the table. The movement is fluid, like his body remembers yours. Like this closeness isn’t strange—it’s forgotten.
It steals the breath from your throat.
Your pulse is a war drum now, thrashing against your ribs.
You stare at him, stunned, suspended in the moment. It’s not the lifting that flusters you—it’s the claiming. It’s the way his fingers linger at your hips, the way he steps in closer, nudging your knees apart so he can fit between them. His chest brushes against yours, steady and unyielding.
You lean back slightly, resisting the pull of him, but he follows. His hands find the base of your back, the curve of your neck, drawing you into his gravity.
There is no room left for distance now.
His breath fans against your lips.
You close your eyes—not in surrender, but in defense. The tension is unbearable. Too much. Too close. Too late.
When you open them again—
“There you go,” he whispers, and the way he says it—gentle, reverent—makes your stomach twist.
“If I don’t want to look at you, then I won’t!” Your voice comes out shaky, but you manage to push the words out like a threat. “You can’t force me to do otherwise.”
He exhales, but not with frustration. It sounds almost hurt. And that makes you even angrier.
“Don’t steal your eyes away from me, then,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone with aching tenderness. “Not when they’re the only truth I get out of you these days.”
That does it.
Something inside you snaps—splinters and bleeds. You grab the collar of his shirt with both fists and yank him down, your body folding into his like a question you no longer know how to ask. You let him bear your weight—your grief, your anger, your longing—all of it.
“Who do you think you are?!” You demand, voice rising with every beat of your heart.
“Your husband,” he says, without hesitation.
The words knock the wind from you. Not because he’s wrong—but because he says it like he never stopped being yours.
“Don’t make me laugh!” you spit, tears stinging behind your eyes now. “You haven’t acted like my husband in three years! You and I don’t talk. You and I don’t eat together. You and I don’t sleep together, or do the laundry together. You and I don’t plan for anything. You and I don’t go out. You and I don’t call. You and I don’t touch. You and I don’t try. You and I are not together in anything!”
Each word is a wound. And still, he takes them.
You wait for him to defend himself. To retreat. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he looks at you like you’ve just handed him a map.
“Is that what you want?” he murmurs. “Then we’ll do all of it. We’ll talk. We’ll eat every meal together. We’ll sleep together. We’ll fight over the bills, do the laundry. We’ll plan our future down to every damn weekend. We’ll go out. We’ll touch. We’ll do everything. Together.”
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. You feel the tremble in his breath, the warmth of his promise bleeding into your skin.
“I vow no part of you will go unloved. Just… give this another chance.”
The silence crackled.
You didn’t mean for any of this to matter again.
You want to hate him.
You miss him.
You want him to let you go.
You want him to fight for you.
Zayne’s eyes are searching yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your head and gather all the pieces you’ve left behind.
His voice is soft now. The way you used to imagine in your dreams. The way it never was during the marriage except—
“Tell me what you really want,” he says, not quite breathing.
You shake your head.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because it’s you, you want to scream.
Because when I’m near you, I forget everything.
Because I swore I’d walk away this time.
Your hand twitches against the table.
He doesn’t move. But his stillness has always been dangerous. It invites you in. It lures you closer. It makes you think maybe—maybe if you leaned just a little—
You’re already kissing him.
Your hands are in his shirt before you even realize, fisting the fabric like it wronged you. Your lips are brutal, messy, a furious grind of need and grief. It's not soft. It’s clumsy. Open-mouthed. Raw.
Zayne gasps into your mouth like he’s been underwater for years.
Then he grabs you—hands cupping your jaw, tilting your head just so, as if this is the only thing he’s allowed to touch in this universe. And suddenly he’s kissing you back like he means to end every argument with his mouth, like he wants to stake his claim on your tongue.
You arch against him and he groans. It's ragged. Aggravating. You’ve never heard him sound like that. Like he's unraveling.
Your legs part without thinking and he shifts forward, mouth never leaving yours. His thigh slots between yours, and your hips buck like you're trying to crawl inside him, like you're trying to use his body to forget the fact that you just told him you were leaving.
You hate yourself for it.
You want more of it.
His hands move down your spine, sliding under your shirt, burning cold, and your fingers bury into his hair, yanking, tugging—needing.
More. More. More.
He gasps your name against your jaw. You kiss his neck. You bite, and he hisses. You’re not being careful anymore. You want him to feel what you’re feeling. You want to ruin him the way he’s ruined you.
He shifts again, this time straddling your thighs, and for one perfect second, your noses brush. His breath is hot against your cheek. His hands tremble where they hold your hips.
It feels like the edge of something.
Then—
He pulls away.
Violently.
His body rips from yours like a fault line cracking.
You’re left gasping, lips tingling, every nerve ending exposed like a live wire. You stare at him, blinking, dazed, feral in your confusion.
Zayne’s breath is heavy. Unsteady. His fingers dig into his thighs like he’s holding himself back from something catastrophic.
You reach for him again, not even thinking.
He flinches back.
“Don’t.”
His voice is like shrapnel.
You freeze.
And that’s when you see it—he’s hurt.
Not just frustrated. Not just angry. Hurt.
Your brows pull together. “Zayne…?”
His eyes are glassy, but hard. Like ice melting too slowly to be useful. He stares at you, and he doesn’t hide the pain in his face this time.
“You're deflecting.”
“What?”
He laughs, but it sounds broken. Like gravel ground beneath tired wheels. He leans back, still panting. Runs a hand through his hair. Won’t look at you now.
“You kissed me so you wouldn’t have to answer.”
“That’s not true.”
He doesn’t reply.
You try again, sitting up straighter, your shirt sliding back into place. “Zayne, I—”
“No.” His voice is quiet now. Flat. “Don’t try to make excuses.”
Your heart seizes.
“I’m not trying to make excuses, I just—”
“Then what?” he demands. His eyes whip back to yours, wild with betrayal. “What was that? Was it closure? One last kiss before you pack your bags?”
You swallow.
Because you don’t know.
It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t a strategy. It was you. Wanting. Hurting. Reaching for the only thing that’s ever felt remotely like home—even when it didn’t feel yours.
“I didn’t mean to,” you say softly.
Zayne nods. Once. Slow. His eyes close. “That, I believe.”
You stare at him.
And he looks away, hands braced on the table now like he’s trying not to collapse.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then:
“I told myself... if I gave you time... if I kept my distance... you’d come to me when you were ready.”
He lifts his gaze.
“But now I’m starting to wonder if you ever intended to come back.”
The truth sits heavy in the room.
You try to speak.
But stop.
Because anything you say now will sound like an apology. And apologies feel too fragile for the storm you’ve just unleashed.
So instead you sit there, breath shallow, lips bitten, body still aching from the loss of his weight.
Zayne walks away.
Far enough to hurt.
Far enough to make sure you know he’s not chasing this time.
Zayne doesn’t remember walking out of the room.
Doesn’t remember what his hands were doing—whether they were shaking, whether they were clenching, whether they were still warmed by the feel of your hips beneath his palms.
All he remembers is the kiss.
The kiss and the shame and the haunting suspicion that it hadn’t meant anything to you.
No—no, that wasn’t fair.
It had meant something. He felt it in the way your fingers gripped him like a lifeline. In the way you kissed like you were starving but furious about it. Like someone who hadn’t eaten in days finally letting themselves feast—and then hating the meal for tasting so damn good.
It had meant something.
But not what he’d wanted it to.
It hadn’t been a promise.
It had been a distraction.
And that’s what undid him.
That’s what left him standing in the middle of the living room, alone, the shadows of the room cold around him. His breath still caught in his chest like a secret he couldn’t say out loud.
He lifts trembling fingers to his mouth, brushing them over his lips.
They're still swollen. Still damp. Still yours.
“Good lord,” he whispers.
The walls say nothing back.
He leans his back against the cool wall, jaw clenched tight, trying to push the kiss out of his head. But it’s in his bloodstream now. In his nerves. In the grooves of his scars and the shape of his spine and the hollow in his chest where hope used to live.
You asked for a divorce.
You told him you were leaving.
Then you kissed him like it killed you to want him.
Was that guilt? Pity? One last mercy before you walked away?
He presses his eyes shut. The pressure makes sparks dance behind his eyelids.
He’s so damn tired.
Tired of pretending it didn’t matter.
Tired of watching you build walls while he stands outside in the cold.
Tired of loving you in silence, in shadows, in the corners of rooms where you won’t look at him.
He thought—God, he hoped—that maybe things were changing. After the truce. After that rare moment of laughter during the dance. You’d looked soft again. Your voice had lilted. Your eyes had found his and stayed there.
For one selfish second, he let himself believe the worst was behind them.
But then—
"I’m thinking about moving out once the divorce finalizes."
The words keep echoing. They shouldn’t hurt more than the first time you said you wanted to leave, but they do. Maybe because this time, they felt final. Not just angry. Not just hurtful. But resolved.
Like you’d already made peace with the idea of a world without him.
He sinks down onto the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands laced over his mouth.
His heart beats unevenly. His evol flickers—small cold pulses at his fingertips.
He hates this.
He hates how easily he let himself fall again. How much he still wants you. Even now. Even after you kissed him like you were drowning and then looked at him like he was the one holding you underwater.
He breathes in deep, once. Twice. Tries to settle the roaring thing in his chest. The ache. The ache that started years ago and has never really stopped.
And then—
He stands up.
He doesn’t know where he’s going.
But he knows he can’t stay still.
The silence after Zayne leaves is almost unbearable. The room feels colder. Emptier. Like he took the warmth with him.
You bring your fingers to your lips, stunned.
What have you done?
You kissed him.
You kissed him.
You kissed your husband—the man you served divorce papers to—the man you told you’d be leaving soon.
And it hadn’t felt like regret.
It had felt like hunger. Like madness. Like reaching for the edge of a cliff and being glad when you started to fall.
Your hands are still shaking.
Your thighs still remember the press of his body between them. Your skin still hums with the feel of his cold hands beneath your shirt. His breath in your mouth. His groan when you bit his neck. The desperate, frightened sound he made when your hips rolled against his.
God.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to erase it—but it’s carved into you now. It’s a bruise blooming beneath the skin.
What the hell were you thinking?
You’re the one who keeps saying this isn’t sustainable. That the marriage was a farce. That your mother orchestrated your future like a cruel puppeteer and left you dancing in a cage.
But the way you kissed him—
It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t even lust. It was worse than that.
It was longing.
You bite your lip hard, trying to push down the heat rising in your chest. You feel stupid. Ungrateful. Traitorous to your own cause.
You told yourself this time you’d be strong. You’d see it through. No matter how gentle his voice sounded. No matter how lonely you felt at night. No matter how beautiful he looked in the light that spills through the high windows.
You’d be the woman who finally chooses herself.
So why—why did you pull him in?
Why did it feel like sucking in air after almost drowning?
You stand too quickly. The world tilts. You steady yourself on the table, staring down at the half-finished lunch. The chair across from yours, empty.
Was he disappointed?
Of course he was. You saw it. The way he stepped back. The way his voice cracked when he said, you’re deflecting.
He wasn’t wrong.
But he wasn’t right either.
You didn’t kiss him to distract him.
You kissed him because—for just a second—you forgot how to not want him near.
You press your forehead to the wall and let yourself cry, just once. Quiet. Fierce. Into the walls that’s held your worst secrets for three long years.
Zayne has always made you feel like you’re on fire and underwater at the same time.
You don't know if this was the beginning of the end.
Or the start of something far more dangerous.
The scent of antiseptic and artificial citrus fills Zayne’s lungs the second he walks through the doors of Akso hospital. It's too clean, too bright—everything in sharp contrast to the slow, simmering rot in his chest.
He’s been here less than two hours and already he’s running on autopilot—clipboard in hand, white coat crisp, hair shoved back in a way that makes him look more polished than he feels.
There’s a buzz in the air: nurses rushing in and out of triage, residents scrambling over their notes, someone shouting down the hallway for a portable EKG. It should energize him.
Instead, it grates.
He walks his rounds with a practiced rhythm, checking vitals, reviewing charts, murmuring soft reassurances to anxious patients with lines under their eyes and oxygen tubes in their noses.
He knows how to do this. He likes doing this.
It’s people who are easy to help. Their pain is visible. Their injuries are diagnosable. They bleed in measurable units and respond to treatment.
You though;
You bleed in silence.
You hurt in corners he couldn’t reach.
And now he’s standing in the middle of a ward full of wounded people, and all he can think about is how badly he failed to treat the most important person in his life.
“Someone’s grumpy today,” comes a teasing voice from behind.
Zayne turns, just in time to catch a chart tossed his way. He fumbles it, nearly dropping it to the floor.
Greyson grins at him.
Yvonne stands beside him, watching Zayne like he’s a puzzle she’s just realized she wants to solve.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, too casual.
“Not now,” Zayne mutters, brushing past them both toward the elevators.
But Greyson just follows, unfazed. “Come now, Dr. Zayne. We’re your emotional support package. That’s what friends are for.”
Zayne jabs the elevator button too hard. “I'm fine.”
Yvonne raises a brow. “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be composed but you’re blinking like you want to scream.”
“I’m. Fine.”
The elevator dings. Zayne walks in alone.
Greyson leans forward and says through the doors as they close: “Fine means ‘Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional’—just saying.”
Zayne exhales sharply as the elevator ascends.
He doesn’t want to talk to them. Not today. Not when his thoughts are still steeped in your scent, your mouth, your voice cracking as you said, “I’m thinking about moving out—”
The doors open on his floor. He walks to his office with practiced detachment.
It isn’t until he’s behind the door—closed off from the world, just him and the dull grey sky through the open window—that the tension starts to thaw.
He lowers himself into the chair behind his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t slept. Not properly. Not since yesterday. Not since your mouth was on his. Not since your nails bit into his skin, begging without words, and then pushing him away again.
He rests his head in his hands.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.
Then it rang. Persistent. He glances at it.
Mom.
Zayne hesitated, his thumb hovering above the screen. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her. It was that he didn’t trust his voice not to tremble the moment she said his name in that gentle, knowing way of hers. His mother had a scientist’s mind and a healer’s intuition. Sharp as a blade and soft as a lullaby. He didn’t know how she did that—read him from halfway across the Arctic like he was a field experiment gone wrong.
He let it ring out.
Then it rang again.
Zayne sighed and finally answered.
“Hey, Mom.”
There was a second of silence. Just the wind in the background on her end—he imagined it rushing past some research camp or snow-drifted station in the north. Then her voice came through, warm like cocoa by a fire.
“Oh, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nothing. Why would something be wrong?”
“That’s the exact voice you used when you lied about breaking your arm at eight.”
Zayne huffed a soft laugh, weak at the edges. “I didn’t break it. It was a sprain.”
“Because you thought you could ice-skate down the driveway on your boots.”
“You told me it was physics in action.”
“I told you friction was important,” she teased. “And that you were not, in fact, a penguin.”
Another silence stretched between them. Then, her tone gentled.
“Zayne,” she said, carefully. “What happened?”
His hand curled into a loose fist against the counter. He could feel it then—the tight band around his chest that had been there since you uttered those words.
He’d felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs.
Just when he thought you were softening toward him. Just when he thought the worst of the storm had passed and maybe—maybe—this thing between you might become real, not just in name or contract but in heart.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said quietly.
Her voice came through steady, no pressure, just presence. “Start where it hurts.”
He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb to the center of his forehead like he could will the ache away.
“She wants a divorce,” he swallowed hard. “She wants to leave me.”
A pause. Just long enough for the truth to settle into the Arctic air.
“Oh.”
One word. Soft. Sympathetic. Full of layered understanding only mothers seemed capable of. She didn’t gasp. Didn’t ask for details. Just accepted it. Let it land.
He was grateful for that.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” he said, and it came out raw now, all his composure worn thin. “I tried giving her space. After everything she went through, I thought the best thing I could do was… not pressure her. Not add more weight. Not corner her. Not ask for anything.”
He exhaled through his nose, his voice gaining traction like an avalanche starting to slide.
“I didn’t want to make her feel trapped. I thought I was doing the right thing. Letting her come to me when she was ready.”
His mother exhales softly through the speaker.
“I’m guessing that didn’t work.”
He lets his head fall.
“No.”
“Zayne…” Her voice thickens, like it aches to be closer. “My sweet boy. A woman’s heart is a fragile thing. Not weak. But fragile. It bruises in places you can’t see. And it remembers what you never meant to say.”
“I thought we were doing better,” he said, his voice barely above a breath now. “She started laughing again. She let me touch her. We talked. We shared space like… like maybe it meant something again.”
“And you hoped that meant she was healing.”
He nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, but feeling seen anyway.
“I thought I had time,” he whispered. “Time to make it right.”
“And maybe you still do,” she said, but not with false hope. It was quieter than that. More reverent. “But Zayne… she probably doesn’t know what your silence was meant to say. You were protecting her, but you forgot something.”
“What?”
“You forgot to protect your marriage, too.”
That hit like a stone to the chest. He turned away from the window, one hand dragging through his hair.
“She told me she never wanted a wedding like the one we had,” he murmured.
“Did you?”
He hesitated. “No. I hated it.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“I thought it would sound like I was complaining. I didn’t want her to feel guilty for something her mother planned.”
“Oh, baby,” she said with a tender laugh. “Your love language is martyrdom, and hers is probably honesty. You two are going to need a damn translator.”
A breath of amusement slipped out of him, bitter-edged.
“I didn’t mean for things to get like this,” he said.
“No one ever does. But love doesn’t live in intention, Zayne. It lives in the messy, stupid, everyday execution of it.”
She paused, then said more gently, “Have you told her what she means to you?”
Zayne opened his mouth, then closed it.
The silence was answer enough.
“I thought I had time,” he said again.
His mother was quiet for a moment.
Then, “You do. But only if you stop assuming she already knows.”
Zayne swallowed hard. Blinked rapidly. He could feel it now—that burning behind his eyes, the ache of everything unsaid and all the ways he had failed to translate the language of his love.
“And sweetheart?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t just fight for her when she’s pulling away. Love her loud, even when she’s close. Especially then.”
“I’ll try,” he said, quietly.
“Good. That’s all you can do.”
When the call ended, Zayne stared at the phone for a while. His reflection in the black screen was drawn and haunted. He looked like the man he feared he was becoming—a man who let love slip through his fingers in the name of being careful.
But then he stood.
His fingers were trembling. But his feet moved forward.
Maybe it wasn’t too late.
Maybe love, when wielded like truth, could still be enough.
You don’t remember walking here.
One moment you were sifting through the hollow remains of what used to be your life—old drawers, forgotten boxes, the kinds of things people leave behind when they’re about to leave for good. You were supposed to be packing. That’s what you’d promised yourself. A clean break, swift and merciless. A disappearing act.
And then you saw them. Nestled under a heap of old scarves, like a secret you didn’t mean to find.
The tennis rackets.
One handle wrapped in worn leather, stained from your palms. The other still pristine, a spare you never used. You stood still for a moment, just staring at them, that same dull ache blooming somewhere behind your eyes, where memory begins to hurt. You weren’t even sure why you took them. You just did. Walked out of the apartment like a ghost wearing your skin.
Now, here you are, standing in the middle of the empty, crumbling court on the edge of town—the one no one uses anymore. Weeds crawling up the chain-link fence. The lines faded. The net sagging like it, too, had given up.
You didn’t warm up. You didn’t stretch. You just served.
Ball after ball after ball. Serve after serve until your shoulders screamed and your legs threatened to buckle. You were playing like you had something to prove, like you could burn through the pain if you just kept going. Like the ache inside you could be outrun, outraged, outplayed.
Eventually, the racket gave up before you did.
The strings snapped mid-swing. It all collapsed—the ball, the breath caught in your lungs, your knees. The frame splintered, the sound of it cracking through the still air like a shot.
Now you’re sitting on the concrete. You must’ve sunk to your knees, then sat down, but you don’t remember the motion. You don’t even remember crying. But your cheeks are wet, and your hands are trembling in your lap. Your palm is bruised. There’s a small cut near the base of your thumb where the racket bit back, and you didn’t notice until now.
The broken racket lies beside you like a corpse. The last piece of a version of you that had almost been brave.
You feel hollow. Carved out. Nothing left to give, not even rage.
Only silence.
You tried to do the right thing. You handed him the divorce papers because it was the only way you knew how to love him. You tried to make it easier—for both of you. Tried to set him free before either of you drowned in the wreckage.
You keep telling yourself that.
You keep trying to be the kind of person who doesn’t need anyone. You so desperately want to be that person. That person who sits in silence and calls it strength, who shrugs off neglect with grace and wears independence like a tailored coat. That person who says—no, I don’t need validation. No, I don’t need affection. No, I don’t need intimacy. No, I don’t need to be taken care of. No, I don’t need love.
That no, you don't need a tight hug that knocks the air out of your lungs and a warm hand on your head and a soft voice whispering “It’s okay,” while you fall apart. You tell yourself you’re strong, that you’ve been strong all your life, that this is just another chapter of loneliness you’ll survive.
You want to believe that. God, you do.
You want to believe you are whole enough. Self-sufficient enough. Sharp enough to protect yourself from ever needing something so messy and warm and inconsistent. Love. Comfort. Him.
But it’s not true.
Because you want.And you want.
And you want and you want and you want and you want and you want—
It’s not a feeling anymore.
It’s a condition.
A disease.
This wanting is stitched into your very marrow, into the curve of your spine and the ache in your chest. You wake up with it. You eat around it. You try to distract yourself from it. But it’s always there.
A howl inside your ribcage.
A fist pounding on a locked door.
You ruined the one good thing you had in life. But what else could you do? You had to.
Because what were you doing in that marriage, really?
What kind of life is it for him, being married to a parrot? Nodding at dinner, smiling through things you don’t believe in, echoing someone else’s dream until your voice is just an afterthought? You couldn’t keep lying. Not to yourself. Not to him. Not to this marriage that had become a beautifully furnished silence.
Zayne is a good man. Too good, even. You know that.
He has too much integrity to have suggested a divorce by himself. Not even if it suffocated him. He will see this marriage through to the end even if it kills him to do so. He would’ve stayed out of duty because he was raised to honor his word, to never break an oath.
And you love that about him.
You love him.
You love him.
You love him so much it has become something shameful, something dangerous. Because you can’t look at him without seeing everything he deserves and everything you will never be.
And it’s precisely why you have to let him go.
Because he deserves more. He deserves a marriage rooted in trust and truth, not sacrifice and guilt and delayed conversations that never happen. He deserves joy. He deserves a home, soft sunday mornings and laughter in the kitchen, not silence so thick it suffocates. He deserves a wife who reaches first. A wife who brings light into a room, not clouds. He deserves to be happy when he walks through the door, kissed until his glasses fog, loved without conditions or footnotes. True companionship.
He deserves to be seen.
And you—you're just… gloom. Rainclouds in human form. Even your joy is fragile, apologetic. You swallow your needs until they become sharp enough to cut from the inside. You want too much and say too little. The shadow of your mother clings to you like smoke. She always took everything. Your medals. Your wins. Your agency. Even in death, she haunts the periphery of every decision you try to make for yourself.
So you understand. Of course you do. You understand why he was distant. He was hurting too. Probably trying to give you space in the only way he knew how. But silence stretches like a chasm, and eventually, something had to fall in.
So you did.
You wrap your arms around your knees and stare straight ahead. You don’t cry again. You’re past the crying. This is the part where everything is numb. This is the part where you stop expecting things to be okay.
It’s almost sundown when he finds you.
You hear his footsteps before you see him. Slow, deliberate. The hesitant tread of a man trying not to startle something fragile.
Zayne.
You don’t turn your head, but your breath hitches just a little.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just sits down beside you. Not too close. Not too far. You feel the warmth of him before anything else, even in the cooling air. You glance sideways and see his profile—drawn tight with worry. Haggard. Out of breath.
You wonder how it must’ve looked when he came home. The silence must’ve hit him first. Then the mess.
Drawers half-open. A jacket missing. A book out of place. Your favorite coffee mug, gone from the rack. Your slippers, gone from beside the bed.
He must’ve assumed the worst. Yet he still looked for you.
His eyes fall on the racket, the frayed strings, the bruises on your hand.
He says nothing.
You whisper, “It’s broken.”
Your voice cracks like the racket had.
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, gently, “We can always buy new ones.”
You swallow. “But it was a gift. From my high school coach. She gave it to me after we won regionals. She was so proud of me.”
You let the words hang there for a second, like you’re afraid of where they’re going. Then they spill out anyway.
“My mother didn’t like it. Said sports were unladylike. Said it was time I focused on more ‘useful’ pursuits. She took everything. My trophies. My medals. Said I didn’t need reminders of childish glory.”
You inhale sharply, but it shakes like a sob.
“This racket was the only thing I managed to save. And now it’s gone, too.”
Zayne shifts, but you still don’t look at him. You’re scared. If you meet his eyes, you’ll shatter again. And you’re tired of breaking.
“Am I a bad daughter?” you ask, barely audible. “Am I bad for hating my dead mother?”
He opens his mouth, but you shake your head, tears blurring your vision.
“No, be honest with me. Am I a bad wife too? Did our marriage fail because of me?”
That gets him.
He stands abruptly, turns to face you fully, and crouches in front of you, hands reaching his palms on your cheeks, cradling you with a kind of reverence that feels too tender to bear.
“My love,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with something too big for language. “You have not failed in anything.”
You shake your head. “Don’t—”
“No,” he cuts in gently but firmly. “Look at me.”
You do. And the look in his eyes is devastating. Like you hung the stars, like you built the sky, like you are a map he’s spent his whole life memorizing.
“You are not bad,” he says. “You are not broken. You have fought for everything you have. Even when the world wanted you smaller. Quiet. More manageable.”
His eyes—a storm of hazel-green and unflinching—hold yours.
“And yes, maybe we failed. But you are not the reason we are hurting. We’re both lost in this. It wasn't because you weren’t enough. It was because I didn’t know how to reach you.”
You let out a choked sound. A half-sob, half-laugh. “But I’m such a mess, Zayne. I—I can’t even—”
“You are not a mess,” he whispers. “You are grieving. You are healing. You are trying. And I see you.”
That breaks something in you.
You collapse forward, and he catches you, arms wrapping around your shuddering frame. He rocks you like he’s done it a thousand times in his dreams. You bury your face in his chest and cry—ugly, painful sobs that claw out of your throat like they’ve been trapped for years.
He holds you through all of it.
His hand finds your hair, his lips brush your temple, and he whispers, over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
people DESPERATE in the notes to explain why the way THEY engage with harry potter is morally pure. It's like white people talking about rap music in there! Libraries buy the books! Fanfiction maintains a conversation around the IP! There is NO WAY to enjoy harry potter in 2025 without publicly supporting JK Rowling!
normally i need something going on in the background to concentrate. youtube video, a movie, spotify, doesnt matter, just something. otherwise my diagnosed adhd brain refuses to work.
now, im a self proclaimed writer. what i write? not important, but i will give you my ao3 account if you ask me.
anyways, this rule does not apply to writing. no, i need complete silence when im writing otherwise im simply just not picking up what im putting down and words start blending together. i either write too little or write too much.
it's really sad because i'll WANT to watch that youtube video in the background, but i cant because if i do then half an hour later ive written a plot point but with an emotion that somehow conveys a sims 4 modern mansion speed build
