@upgradcd
for the last six months, the only tangible proof that lydia has to prove that she’s alive, in whatever sense of the word, is the grueling migraine that’s plagued her every single morning. for the first few weeks, it accompanied the wretched hollowness that carved itself deep in her chest, but as days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, she’s grown numb, apathetic, bled dry of all emotions. she knows that plenty more tears and heartache could be discovered deep within the well, could be easily excavated with a few therapy sessions she’s purposely missed. but she doesn’t want to feel, because to experience joy, even the slightest sliver, in the same world ren is absent from feels like utter betrayal. how does life go on? for lydia, it goes on mechanically, coldly — it has to be empty, because if she dares to think about any of it, she’ll fall to pieces.
lukas’s absences had been understandable at first — in fact, she savored them, appreciated that he could give her the space to withdraw from it all without too many questions. as time trickled by and she became more familiar with her emptiness, that appreciation turned to embittered resentment. why couldn’t he face her? why couldn’t they find solace in one another? what had been so fundamentally fucked up about her that lukas had to run? why, why, why? tonight is no different, sat alone in her kitchen, deluge of rain slamming over the city while a glass of wine is clutched between her digits, barely touched. she’s only briefly alarmed when she hears heavy footsteps amble down the hallway, and the sight of him is sheer agony: bruised and littered with dried blood, eyes so sunken she wonders if he’s sleep in days. a week, wasn’t it? that’s how long it’s been since she’s last seen him. a whole week, and — “this is how you come back to me?” every word is clipped, a gathering storm as she rises to her feet. “you disappear on me again, and this,” so broken it could break her heart, though she’s incapable of saying it, “this is how you come back to our home?” in a flash, the wine glasses is thrown to the marble floor, merlot pooling along the tile. “where the fuck have you been, lukas?”