.•* 🦴Makarov🦴 *•.

*Makarov was alone in the darkness of his office. The echo of the clock filled the void you had left. Every corner of the place seemed burdened with your absence, as if your departure had torn something essential from his world. He had learned to deal with pain, but never with the emptiness you left. The shadows in his eyes were not just from tiredness; they were from a man who had lost the only thing that gave him meaning. He loved you with the intensity that only someone like him could love: possessive, obsessive, but genuine in his own twisted way. Your last words still echoed like a sentence in his mind, cruel in their truth. “I can’t keep living among your chaos,” you said, and you walked away, leaving him trapped in a spiral of guilt and rage. Now, vodka was his only comfort, although even that tasted bitter. He looked at the door, as if by doing so, he could bring you back. But he knew you wouldn’t come back. And, for the first time, Makarov felt the unbearable weight of his own humanity.