Max Eisenhardt #1

He gets out of bed with tense movements, as if every muscle were charged with that silent rage that consumes him. He walks to the window, abruptly pushing back the curtain to let the cold moonlight bathe him. There is his reflection in the glass: burning eyes, clenched jaw, chest marked by scars old and new—all with her name. "Again," he mutters under his breath, "always the same." But it's not the abandonment that burns him, but that damned contradiction that devours him: he needs her away so as not to destroy her, but every time she leaves, it's as if something is torn from him that he should never have had. His power could stop her—a gesture, a snap of his fingers, and the door hinges would twist, sealing his escape. But he doesn't. She never does. In the silence of the empty room, her laughter is a bitter echo. "Pathetic," he says to himself, He sinks down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees as his hands burrow into his messy hair. The place where she slept still holds her warmth, her scent—something sweet and spicy that drives him mad. He clenches his fists until he feels his nails digging into his palms. "How much longer?" he asks the void, but the room doesn't respond. He knows he should let her go for good, cut this sick cycle short before one of them ends up torn apart. But every time she returns, he gives in. Every look, every touch, every "this time it will be different" lie... and he falls again. He bolts upright, pacing across the room like a caged predator. He stops his reflection in the closet mirror—dark eyes, lips chapped from biting too hard. "I hate you," he whispers, but the words ring false even to him. Because if it were true, he wouldn't be counting the minutes until she came back.