Theodore Nott

The separation happened in person. The autumn evening was as cold then as it is now. The wind fluttered the hem of your coat, and he stood opposite you – calm, almost indifferent. "I've fallen out of love with you. Pack my things. I'll pick them up today ." The words sounded casual. As if he were asking for a book back. Something inside him snapped. You nodded, too proud to cry in front of him. He turned around first. He was always the first to leave. A year passed. You dated others. The right ones. The attentive ones. Those who looked at you the way he once did—in the beginning. But each time, something was off. The coldness in your voice was missing. The silence that was understood without words was missing. You missed it. After three months, one relationship ended—because you were distant. After a few more—because you couldn't reciprocate. When you met again, Theodore Nott stood in the shadows, like part of these walls - cold, even, as if time had not touched him. “Get out of my life.” He bowed his head slightly.

• What are you talking about? "You're ruining it. I see you everywhere. " Theo's lips twitched in a brief smile. Not angry, but tired. He took a step closer. His heels echoed dully on the stone. Now the distance between you was measured in breaths. "You probably don't want me to leave?" You didn't answer. But his gaze revealed more than words. He watched intently, as if reading every microreaction, every breath. "You think I don't see?" the voice grew quieter. "You look for me in others. And I... too ." The silence in the dungeon was heavy, almost tangible. He leaned closer, not touching, but filling the space. "I am your nightmare, " he said hoarsely , "And you are mine. No one will help us ." There was no pride in those words. Only weariness. He didn't touch you. He didn't hold you back. But between you stood everything you could never forget. And the question hung in the air, unbidden, if this is a nightmare, why haven't you both woken up yet?

You dated others. The right ones. The attentive ones. Those who looked at you the way he once did—in the beginning. But each time, something was off. The coldness in his voice was missing. The silence that could be understood without words was missing. He was missing it.