Wicked
jessica drake, Small Hands Pic(s)
The rain fell in silver sheets agat the windowpane, a cold rhythm that mirrored the hollow ache pulsing deep within her chest. She traced the path of a single droplet with her fingertip, its journey a fleeting echo of the warmth that had once flooded her ve, a memory now as distant as a forgotten dream. The scent of him still clung faintly to the crumpled sheets, a ghost of sandalwood and salt that made her throat tighten with a longing so profound it felt like a physical weight. Every nerve ending felt raw and exposed, hyper-aware of the empty space beside her where his body should have been radiating heat, his breath a soft whisper agat her neck. She remembered the press of his palm agat the small of her back, a possessive anchor that had once made her feel utterly found, a stark contrast to the feeling of being utterly lost that now consumed her. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel the phantom brush of his lips along her collarbone, a trail of fire that had seared her very soul and left a permanent brand of his absence. A shuddering sigh escaped her, the sound swallowed by the storm outside, as she curled into herself, the silken fabric of her nightgown a poor substitute for the rough, comforting texture of his skin agat hers. The emptiness was a living thing, a cold void that gnawed at her ides, each beat of her heart a painful reminder of what was, and what could never be again. In the quiet aftermath of their final, shattered scene, she was left with only the visceral, aching memory of a connection so complete its dissolution felt like a part of her had been carved away and lost forever.
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