The person I love is fictional.

It’s details ebb and flow between texts and worlds, sinking in the scars of the stories I put her through. It’s never one set face, but I can tell you the places were she’s wrinkled or scarred. I can detail the spots were the freckles sit on her face, or the mannerisms such as a nose scrunch or picking her fingers weave lines onto her body. She is shaped by the sc...

I tilted my gaze to the box beside the bed. It’s not small but snug between the bookcase and some carbaord boxes I decided not to take with me.

Buttons. Felt. A shoelace placed precariously into the box. It’s indistinguishable between the bits of a string and pins.

I stare next beside it, to the sewing box I’d abandoned year ago, when I’d traveled to the city for work and forgot about my intere...

It my fault. I see it now.

It was possible, in some far- off future, that this would become my safe place; A constant pattern of waves, brushing in and out against the shoreline. Fresher air then any city becoming my sanctuary of health.

I made the decision in my conscious mind to tear up the world I’d already built. To elevate my soul, I destroyed everything else. But now silence is not peace...

The chain digs deeper into the sore skin on his wrists, but the only flinch I see is his jaw tighten. Torchlight flickers over the damp stone walls, standing just as bruised and defiant after the battle as he is.

His head droops forward, chin nearly touching his chest, and for a second - just a second - I think I’ve just watched a man fade into death. My breath leaves my lungs in a harsh, cool r...