Love Like You
Leon drawing made by Me
Claire drawing made by @bluebvrri 🌼🪻
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Leon S. Kennedy | Monologue
There’s something cruel about people like Her. It’s the kind of cruelty that comes from being too alive. From believing there’s still something in this world worth saving.
She looks at you like there’s still a chance, even when you know there isn’t.
I’ve watched her do it—walk through the same kind of hell I did and still come out with that same fire in her chest. She always finds her way back to hope like it’s the easiest thing to do. Like she doesn’t know how to stop.
I envy that.
I hate that I do...
I can’t just look at the world and see something worth holding onto. I can’t look at myself and think I’m capable of loving like that again.
She once told me I make everything harder than it needs to be.
That I think too much, talk too little, and try to fix things that aren’t mine to fix. She laughed when she said it—called me a “walking storm in a suit.” I laughed too, because what else can you do when she’s right?
I think that’s what kills me the most about her. She still sees the good in me. Still treats me like I’m something worth saving.
I can’t decide if that’s mercy or punishment.
Because when she looks at me that way—like she believes I’m capable of feeling something real—I almost believe it too.
Almost.
Then I remember what it’s like to lose everything. What it’s like to carry bodies you can’t bury.
I don’t get that luxury. I don’t get to love like her. My kind of love comes with a countdown—it burns fast, leaves scars, and never stays long enough to be gentle.
She loves like it doesn’t cost her anything.
And I love like I’m still paying for it.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be her—to feel something and not question it to death. To not look over your shoulder every time your heart starts to ache.
But I can’t.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
And every time I think I finally want to stop, I see her again.
Still smiling. Still trying. Still proof that not everyone who walks through fire turns to ash.
That’s the difference between us.
She survives because she wants to live.
I survive because I don’t know what else to do.
Maybe that’s all it’ll ever be—her, chasing the sunrise, and me, too scared to step out of the dark. And if I’m lucky, maybe some part of her warmth reaches me anyway.
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