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Jenna Sativa, Vera King Pic(s)
The air between them thickened with the scent of salt and jasmine, a ghost of their earlier passion now turned acrid. Her fingers, which had moments before traced constellations of desire along a trembling spine, now hovered uselessly, a breath away from skin that had become a wall of cold marble. A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down a cheekbone sharp with the effort of holding back a sob, and the sight of it was a more profound violation than any angry word could be. The silence was a physical weight, pressing down on the rumpled sheets where their bodies had been a single, sweating entity under the moon’s pale gaze. She watched the familiar curve of a shoulder turn away, a deliberate, slow motion that severed their connection more finally than a slammed door. The memory of whispered promises echoed in the hollow space left behind, each one a tiny, sharp shard of glass grinding in her chest. The warmth that had bloomed so readily under her touch was receding like a tide, leaving behind the chilling, barren shore of a new and terrible loneliness. Every cell in her body screamed to bridge the impossible inch of space, to reclaim what was lost in a desperate, clinging embrace, but her limbs were leaden with the crushing finality in the set of that jaw. This was the unmaking, the slow, exquisite agony of watching a universe of shared secrets collapse into two separate, shattered solitudes.
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