#mlm angst

YOU WILL NEVER BE ONE OF THE PEOPLE

Content: Mpreg / Pregnant Neteyam , Aged up Neteyam as always , Angst

This is the day. This is the day you tell Neteyam, your mate, your everything, that you work for the RDA.

The thought makes your stomach twist into knots as you watch him skinning fish by the riverbank, his strong hands moving with practiced ease.

His braids sway as he hums a hunting song under his breath. You should've told him years ago, before the mating bond, before the fucking children, before you became so irreversibly tangled in his life that the truth feels like a knife poised above the woven threads of your existence together.

You clutch the data pad hidden beneath your tunic, the one that receives encrypted messages from the RDA. The one that holds all your reports on Na'vi hunting patterns, migration routes, weak points in their defences. Reports that helped the RDA burn three villages last dry season.

Neteyam looks up, catching your gaze. His golden eyes crinkle in that way that makes your heart stutter. "Come here, ma yawne, I have important news."

So do you, you think. But you won’t tell him yet, later. "What is your important news, Ma Neteyam?"

Your eyes drift to his stomach, a large bump, twins. "There’s going to be a celebration." He smiles, rubbing circles on his stomach. "The hunting party brought back an extra good hunt today."

"Jealous you couldn’t go?" You ask, and he nods, clicking his tongue.

Neteyam’s fingers pause mid-motion, the knife glinting in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. His nostrils flare slightly, noticing something. The scent of your sweat, maybe. Too sharp. Too human.

"You smell like metal," he says quietly, nostrils twitching again. The knife resumes its work, but slower now. Deliberate. The river gurgles between his knees.

You crouch beside him, the data pad pressing like a brand against your ribs. "Been fixing Lo’ak’s old spear," you lie. The words taste like ash.

Neteyam’s ear twitches, left one, but he doesn’t look up. "Hmm. I see."The silence stretches. A dragonfly hovers near Neteyam’s elbow, its wings catching the light in iridescent flashes before darting away. You watch a bead of sweat slide down his temple, tracing the curve of his cheekbone before vanishing into the hollow of his throat. His breathing is steady, but the tendons in his forearm stand taut as he scrapes the fish’s scales away in short, controlled strokes.

"You never fix Lo’ak’s things," he murmurs. The knife stills. "You always say he should learn to—"

A child’s shriek pierces the air. Ateyo barrels out of the bushes, tiny feet kicking up clods of damp earth as he launches himself at Neteyam’s back. "Ma! Ma, look!" He brandishes a twisted vine crown, leaves already wilting in his chubby fist.

Neteyam exhales through his nose, a soft, surrendering sound, and turns as the knife drops onto the grass. "Ah, my fierce hunter returns." He picks Ateyo up and the child’s toes curl against his stomach, Neteyam’s hand instinctively cups the swell of his belly, shielding it.

Ateyo thrusts the crown at you. "For Papa!"

You take it. The vines are still warm from his grip. When you glance up, Neteyam is watching you, gaze heavy with something unspoken. His free hand brushes Ateyo’s knee, fingers lingering over a fresh scrape. "You fell again," he says.

Ateyo nods vigorously. "But I catched a thingy!"

"You caught," Neteyam corrects, lips quirking. His thumb rubs absent circles on the scrape. The scent of crushed ferns and wet soil rises between you, thick as the humidity clinging to your skin.

Behind you, the undergrowth rustles. Lo’ak emerges, breathless, a mud-streaked frog dangling from his grip. "This demon child," he pants, "is fast."

Neteyam covers your child’s ears. "If you call my child a demon, I will make sure you cannot produce any, Lo’ak."

Lo'ak grimaces, shaking the… thing loose from his fingers where it plops into the mud with a wet splat. Ateyo wriggles in Neteyam's arms, straining toward the escaping creature with a delighted shriek. Neteyam's grip tightens instinctively, his bicep flexing against the toddler's ribs as he adjusts his hold, one hand still splayed protectively over his own swollen stomach.

"Easy, yawne," Neteyam murmurs into Ateyo's hair, but his eyes flick back to you, sharp, assessing. The knife lies forgotten in the grass beside his knee, its edge smeared with fish scales that glisten like tiny, discarded mirrors.

Lo'ak crouches, scooping up the thing before it can hop away. "Here, you little terror." He offers it to Ateyo, who grabs at it with sticky fingers. The thing’s throat pulses rapidly, its slick skin catching the golden light filtering through the canopy. The scent of damp moss and river water clings to its twitching limbs.

"You're encouraging him," Neteyam says dryly, but there's no real heat in it. His free hand brushes a strand of hair from Ateyo's forehead, fingers lingering at the damp temple. The child is fever-warm, as always, his pulse rabbiting under Neteyam's touch like the frantic flutter of the frog's heartbeat.

Lo'ak grins, all teeth. "Someone's gotta teach him how to be fun." His gaze slides to you, then away just as quickly. "Unlike certain people." The thing twitches violently in Ateyo’s grip, its slick skin glistening under the dappled sunlight. Neteyam’s fingers twitch, instinctive, protective, but he doesn’t interfere, just watches as their son’s tiny hands squeeze, then loosen, fascinated by the creature’s panicked breaths.

"You’re gonna crush it, ma ‘ite," Lo’ak warns, but his voice is light, amused.

Ateyo blinks up at him, then mimics the word with clumsy lips: "Crush."

Neteyam’s exhale is sharp. "No crushing." He adjusts Ateyo’s grip with deliberate fingers, guiding his palm open. The thing’s legs kick, desperate, and Neteyam’s nostrils flare at the sour tang of its fear. "Gentle," he murmurs. "Like this."

Ateyo’s brow furrows. He pokes the thing’s belly, then, miraculously, lets go. The creature plops into the mud with a wet thud, scrambling away into the reeds.

Lo’ak whistles. "Damn. You’re good at this."

Neteyam flicks his ear. "Language."

"That wasn’t even a swear word!"

"What’s a swear word?"

"Oh Eywa…"

The celebration fire crackles, sending sparks spiraling into the violet dusk. The scent of roasted yerik fat drips onto hot stones below, mingling with the earthy aroma of crushed herbs and the musk of bodies pressed close in the humid air. Ateyo sleeps curled against your thigh, his breath warm through the thin fabric of your loincloth, tiny fingers still sticky with fruit pulp.

Across the fire, Neteyam leans into Tuk’s animated retelling of the hunt, his laughter a low rumble that resonates in your chest. The firelight catches the sweat-slick curve of his shoulder, the way his braids shift like living shadows when he tilts his head. His free hand rests on his stomach, thumb tracing idle circles just below his navel where the twins kick, you’ve counted three sharp jabs in the last minute alone.

Lo’ak slumps down beside you, reeking of fermented fruit. "They’re betting on the birth date," he mutters, jerking his chin toward a cluster of hunters. One, Norm’s kid, you can’t remember his name, holds up a string of beads with a grin.

You grunt. The data pad burns against your hip where it’s tucked beneath your belt.

Lo’ak’s elbow digs into your ribs. "You’re quiet." His pupils are dilated, the herbal sting of liquor thick on his breath. "Usually you’re the first one arguing over—"

"Where’s Jake?"

The question cuts through Lo’ak’s slurred words. His grin falters. "Uh. Dunno. Patrol?" He blinks at you, slow, like a tetrapteron tracking movement. "… Wwwwwhhhy?"

"… No reason."

You have to tell Neteyam. Oh, but he looks so happy… The fire pops, sending a shower of sparks spiraling upward. One lands on your knee, burning briefly before you brush it away. The sting lingers.

Neteyam's laughter cuts off abruptly. His head turns toward you, nostrils flaring as his tail lifts in a slow, questioning arc. His ears tilt forward— that subtle tell you've learned means he's caught a scent he doesn't like. Metal. Sweat. Fear.

"You're shaking," Lo'ak murmurs beside you, voice suddenly sober.

You aren't. But your fingers are clenched so tight. Ateyo stirs against your thigh, his tiny nose wrinkling as he inhales your tension.

Neteyam stands. The firelight paints the sweat-damp hollows of his collarbones as he moves around the circle, stepping over drowsy clanmates. His shadow falls across you, blocking the flames. The scent of him, warm leather, salt, the faint iron-tang of the fish he cleaned earlier, fills your lungs as he crouches. His knee presses against yours.

"Ma yawne," he murmurs, so soft the word barely carries over the crackling logs. His calloused thumb brushes your knuckles. "You're cold."

Ateyo makes a sleepy noise. Fuck, fuck, tell him. You have to. "Neteyam, sit down, beside me, please. Lo’ak, piss off."Lo’ak mutters something under his breath, something about "dramatic bastards", but he lumbers to his feet, swaying slightly before disappearing into the crowd. The space he leaves behind fills with the humid press of jungle air and the distant murmur of voices.

Neteyam settles beside you, his warmth radiating through the narrow gap between your thighs. He doesn’t speak, just watches the firelight dance across your knuckles where they grip your knees too tight. His tail curls around your calf, the pressure steady, grounding. Ateyo shifts in his sleep, his little fingers clutching at the fabric of your loincloth as he nuzzles deeper into your thigh.

The fire pops again.

"You’re trembling," Neteyam observes. His voice is low, private.

You exhale through your nose. "Am I?"

His fingers brush your wrist, light, questioning, before sliding down to pry your clenched fist open. Your palm is damp with sweat, the lines etched deep where your nails bit into flesh. "There’s… something I need to tell you, Ma Neteyam."

You gulp and swallow. "I work for the RDA."

All warmth vanishes instantly. The firelight flickers across Neteyam's face, casting his sharp cheekbones into stark relief. His fingers, still tangled with yours, go rigid, then slack. His nostrils flare once, twice. The scent of crushed herbs and roasted meat curdles in the space between you, suddenly cloying.

Neteyam pulls his hand away slowly, as if lifting it through water. His ears lie flat against his skull. His pupils shrink to pinpricks, the firelight catching the amber of his irises like fractured glass. "Repeat that." His voice is low. Too low.

The camp's noise, laughter, Tuk's excited chatter, the rhythmic thump of drums, continues, oblivious. Ateyo shifts against your thigh, murmuring in his sleep. "I work for the RDA." Your tongue feels thick. "Have for… years." Neteyam's breath hitches. His hand drops to his stomach, fingers splaying protectively over the swell. "How." It isn’t a question.

You swallow hard. Neteyam quickly grabs Ateyo, like he’s near a Thanator and not his own father while tears start to well in his eyes. "You knew. From the beginning."

"I didn’t lie, I just—" Neteyam’s fingers dig into Ateyo’s sleeping form, the knuckles whitening beneath his dark skin. His breath comes sharp and shallow, nostrils flaring with each inhale— metal, sweat, the sour tang of deception. The firelight catches the wet gleam in his eyes before he blinks it away, jaw tightening.

"You lied," he hisses. The words barely carry over the crackling fire, but they hit like a physical blow. His tail lashes once, violently, stirring the dust at his feet.

Ateyo stirs, mumbling against Neteyam’s chest, small fingers curling into his father’s top. Neteyam’s grip adjusts instantly, shielding the child’s face from your gaze as if even looking at him now is a violation.

You reach out, instinct, desperation, but Neteyam recoils so sharply his braids whip against his shoulders. "Don’t! You didn’t tell me the Sky People sent you to do that! Was any of it real, or was it just part of some… mission?!" Only then does Lo’ak realise something’s happening, and signals to Kiri in the background to go get Jake. Fucking brilliant.

"I— no, no, It changed. You know it changed, it’s not just the mission anymore—" The firelight flickers wildly as Neteyam backs away even more, tears openly running down his face now. your hip.

Footsteps pound through the underbrush, Kiri, breathless, with Jake close behind. His yellow eyes lock onto yours, then to Neteyam’s crying eyes, and Jake’s eyes widen. He ushers Neteyam and Ateyo close, and you don’t know what to do.

"Neteyam—“

"Get away from me!" He screams,teyo lifts his head, blinking sleepily. "Ma?"

Neteyam presses a kiss to his forehead, quick, desperate. "It’s nothing, ma ‘ite. Go back to sleep." His voice is too steady. Too wrong.

Jake tugs you backward. "Move."

You don’t resist, jaw on the floor.

Neteyam watches you go, his golden eyes gleaming with unshed tears, his free hand splayed over the swell of his stomach— your children, yours, growing inside him even now.

The last thing you see before Jake drags you into the trees is Neteyam’s mouth shaping a single, silent word:

"Never."

The jungle swallows the camp’s firelight, the drums, the scent of roasted meat and crushed herbs. All that’s left is the distant, fading sound of Ateyo’s sleepy murmur—

"Papa?"

And the crushing weight of what you’ve done.

Oh my God, you should’ve never told him.

"Get out of here, now," Jake snarls, angrily pushing you. The damp earth shifts beneath your feet as Jake shoves you forward, his fingers digging into your shoulder like claws. His scent, sharp with sweat and something acidic, like fear or rage, fills your nostrils as you stumble into the undergrowth. A vine catches your ankle, its rough bark biting into your skin as you jerk free.

"Wait," you rasp, but Jake’s already turning away, his tail lashing behind him like a whip. The distant firelight casts his silhouette in jagged orange, his broad shoulders tense as he strides back toward the clearing where Neteyam— your Neteyam— stands clutching Ateyo.

You take a step forward as a twig snaps beneath your heel and Jake whirls around, his yellow eyes flashing in the dark. "Move," he growls, low and guttural, the kind of sound that vibrates in your ribs. Behind him, shadows shift— Lo’ak’s lean frame blocking the path, arms crossed, jaw set.

The jungle presses in around you, its humid breath thick with the scent of wet leaves and rotting wood. Somewhere overhead, something trills, its call sharp and mocking. Your fingers twitch toward the data pad still tucked in your belt.

Jake sees it and his ears flatten. "You keep that," he hisses, "and I’ll rip it from your fucking hands." Ateyo’s voice, small and confused, drifts through the trees: "Papa?" Neteyam murmurs something in response, too soft to hear, but the tone, broken, trembling, sends a knife through your gut.

Kiri emerges from the brush, her dark eyes wide, lips parted as if to speak, but Jake cuts her off with a sharp gesture. "Not now," he snaps. She flinches, then nods, backing away. Lo’ak shifts his weight, his tail flicking restlessly. "Dad—"

"Not now," Jake repeats, quieter this time, but no less final. "Leave, sky demon." He growls. The jungle air clings thick in your throat as Jake turns his back on you for the last time. His tail lashes once, violently, stirring the damp leaves underfoot. Somewhere behind him, Lo'ak shifts, his silhouette blocking the firelight's glow through the trees. His ears are pinned flat, nostrils flared. You don't need to see his face to know his teeth are bared.

Your fingers twitch toward the data pad again. The metal casing is slick with sweat where it presses against your hip. Kiri's hand flashes out, gripping Lo'ak's wrist when he takes a half-step forward. "Don't," she murmurs. Her eyes, wide, wet, lock onto yours. "Just go. Please, just go." A branch cracks under your shifting weight. Jake's shoulders tense, but he doesn't turn around.

The path behind you is a tangle of shadows and creeping vines. You take one step back. Then another. The undergrowth rustles as something small darts away from your retreating footsteps. Then you sprint, you glance back.

He's already gone.

The data pad hums to life in your belt.Your A notification bare feet slap against the damp. You earth as don't you crash need to through the look to undergrowth know what it says, vines whipping against you.

A root catches your toe. You stumble forward, palms slamming into the wet soil. The impact jars up your wrists, sending a shockwave of pain through your forearms. The data pad digs into your hipbone as you roll onto your back, gasping. Above you, the canopy spins, leaves blurring into a smear of green-black against the violet sky. Somewhere to your left, water rushes, the river. You can smell it, the cool mineral tang cutting through the jungle's oppressive musk.

You scramble upright, wiping your hands on your thighs. The mud smears, gritty between your fingers. A twig snaps somewhere behind you. Close. Too close.

"Papa?"

The voice is small, muffled by distance, but it stops your heart. Ateyo. You whirl around, ears straining. The undergrowth rustles again, but it's just a six-legged stingerwasp scuttling over a rotting log, its carapace glistening in the faint bioluminescence creeping up the tree trunks.

Your chest heaves. The data pad's weight is a brand against your skin now, its edges pressing into your flesh with every ragged breath. You yank it free, fingers trembling as you flip it open. The screen flickers to life, casting a sickly blue glow across your face. Two new messages. All from the same encrypted frequency.

Extraction point Alpha. Two hours. Do not engage hostiles.

You swallow hard. The taste of bile coats your tongue. Somewhere overhead, a night predator screeches, its cry echoing through the trees. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, raising the hair on your arms.

A twig snaps.

Closer this time.

You snap the data pad shut, plunging yourself back into darkness just as a figure emerges from the brush.

Lo'ak.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, sweat gleaming on his brow. The faint light catches the whites of his eyes as they dart from your face to the device clenched in your fist. His nostrils flare.

"You're really one of them," he breathes.

Your fingers tighten around the data pad. The casing creaks under the pressure.

Lo'ak takes a step forward. His hand drifts toward the knife at his hip. "Give it to me."

"Lo'ak, listen, I need you to go back to the Omatikaya and get them all out. Please. Somewhere— I don’t know. The RDA are planning something, I don’t know what, and you need the clan out of there."

But he doesn’t believe you.

Noah woke up the next morning with his body heavy. Everything felt numb, like he was watching himself through a window.

"Get up."

"Keep going."

"Pretend."

The voicemail still sat on his phone. He hadn’t listened to it again. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. If he did, he was terrified he wouldn’t survive it.

Jaxon was still gone. Two weeks now. No texts. No calls. No stupid inside jokes scribbled on the edge of Noah’s notebook during third period.

The town barely noticed. His parents said Jaxon was "visiting family upstate." The youth pastor said "sometimes we all need space for reflection." Noah knew better.

Every night, he lay awake, staring at his bedroom ceiling like the cracks in the plaster held some kind of answer. They didn’t. What they held was silence. The kind that filled your throat until you couldn’t breathe.

The note was still folded in his nightstand drawer. "I love you. I’m sorry." Noah read it until the ink blurred from his tears. Then he folded it back up, like if he kept it small enough, tight enough, the guilt wouldn’t leak out through his skin. But it did. Constantly.

He stopped going to youth group. Stopped going to school half the time. Started skipping dinner, lying awake all night and showing up the next day with hollow eyes and shaking hands.

People started to notice him, but for all the wrong reasons.

"You look pale, honey. Are you sleeping enough?"

"Stress can do crazy things to a person, you know."

"Pray on it. God will help you through your confusion."

Confusion.

As if Noah didn’t know exactly what he felt. As if it wasn’t written in every breathless second they’d shared in the back of Jaxon’s truck.

One night, after too many hours staring at Jaxon’s old texts, Noah grabbed his bike and pedaled through town, wind burning his face.He ended up outside the church. Midnight. Empty.

The big wooden doors creaked when he pushed inside, like even the building knew he didn’t belong there anymore.

He sank down at the altar steps. And for the first time in weeks… he prayed. But it wasn’t the kind of prayer they’d taught him. Not structured. Not obedient. Not full of hope. This one came out cracked. Bitter. Angry. "Are you happy now?" Noah whispered, voice raw. "Did I pass the test? Is this what You wanted?" His chest heaved.

Hands balled into fists against the cold marble floor. "I hate You for making me love him. I hate You for making him leave. I hate myself for letting it happen. For wanting it."

Silence.

No voice from heaven. No flash of redemption. Just the dim flicker of the sanctuary light and the echo of his own shaking breath.

Finally, after silence so loud you could cut it with a knife, spoke again.

"Why did you make me like this."

Noah pressed his forehead to the floor, finally letting the tears come—silent, violent, uncontrollable.

For Jaxon.

For himself.

For all the things they would never get to be.

And still... no answer.

When he finally dragged himself home around 2 a.m., he checked his phone for the hundredth time. Nothing.

Except—One new voicemail. Unknown number. With shaking fingers, Noah pressed play.

At first... just breathing. Heavy. Muffled. Like someone fighting tears on the other end.

Then Jaxon’s voice. Quiet. Wrecked. "I shouldn’t be calling. I just… I miss you so bad it feels like I can’t breathe sometimes. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I… I’m sorry. For all of it."

A click.

Silence again.

Noah collapsed onto his bed, phone clutched to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And for the first time, he didn’t know if the ache in his heart was hope...Or just another form of punishment.

bro I was practically SOBBING while writing this. Chapter 3 already finished.. might wait until tomorrow to put it up though.. to keep you on your toes. ( @overflowingteacupoflove don't kill me )

©mattsd0llfac3

pairings: oc!jaxon x oc!noah

The church bells echoed through the small town like they always had. Steady. Unforgiving. Like a warning.

Noah sat in the pew, fingers threaded tightly together, knuckles white. The sermon blurred into static. His eyes didn’t leave the side profile of the boy two rows ahead—Jaxon.

Jaxon. With that messy strawberry blonde hair that always looked a little out of place in a town that demanded perfection. Freckles dusted across skin too pale for the blazing southern sun. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Untouchable. But not to Noah. Not anymore.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It couldn’t be like this. They had grown up together. Sunday school. Wednesday youth group. Mission trips. Every verse, every prayer, every whispered warning of hellfire and shame had been burned into them from the moment they could speak.

"You can pray it away."

"It’s just a temptation. A test."

"God makes no mistakes."

Then why did it feel like this—like Jaxon’s smile could set his entire soul on fire—if it was something so wrong?

It happened one night. The worst mistake they could make. The best mistake they ever made. The air was heavy, summer-thick. They were sitting in the back of Jaxon’s old pickup truck, watching stars blink into the velvet sky. Silence stretched, like it always did when the words got too close to being real. Noah’s heart thudded so loud he was scared Jaxon could hear it. "

Do you ever think…" Jaxon’s voice cracked, breaking like glass mid-sentence. He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Noah turned to him, and Jaxon was already looking—too close, too much. Hazel eyes glassy, mouth parted, breathing like the world might collapse if he exhaled wrong.

Noah kissed him.

Or maybe Jaxon kissed him. He couldn’t remember who started it. Just that it felt like everything. Like drowning and breathing at the same time. And then—after—the guilt rushed in so violently it nearly knocked them both over.

Jaxon shoved away first. Hands trembling. "No… no, no, no. Noah, what did we just…?" Noah couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. His chest burned. Jaxon scrambled out of the truck, pacing, running hands through his hair like if he tore it out, maybe the sin would come with it. "This isn't—this can't be—we can't be this." "But we are," Noah finally whispered. Voice broken. "We always have been." Jaxon turned. Tears shimmered unshed in his eyes.

"You know what they'll do to us. What they'll say." "I don’t care." Noah’s voice shook. "I don’t care, Jax. I care about you." But Jaxon was already shaking his head. "I can’t. I can’t." His fists clenched. "God won’t forgive this." Noah stepped forward, desperate, fingers reaching—but Jaxon flinched away like he was something poisonous. "Don’t. Don’t make this harder."

Silence. Just the cicadas screaming into the night like they were mourning something neither boy could name.

The next day, Jaxon was gone. His house sat hollow, curtains drawn, like the family knew—like they could smell the sin on the walls. Noah found the note stuffed in the crack of his locker at school. A single line, written in Jaxon’s rushed, messy scrawl: "I love you. I’m sorry."

Nothing else.

Noah crumpled it in his fist. He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not where anyone could see. He could only swallow it. Choke on it. Like he always had. The town didn’t speak of it. They never did. Just whispered behind hymn books and smiled too tight on Sunday mornings.

"Boys will be boys."

"He just needed a change of scenery."

"He'll find the right girl someday."

But Noah knew. Knew the truth that haunted the spaces between pews and echoed in the hollow ache of his chest. He would never forget the way Jaxon looked at him that night. Like love. Like heartbreak. Like goodbye.

And maybe that was all they were ever allowed to be. A sin whispered beneath stained glass. A love that never got to live.

But that wasn't the end. It couldn't be.

©mattsd0llfac3

Um so first series! Do we love or no..

mlm!oc x mlm!oc

contains: mlm. angst. angst. and, oh look at that, even more angst. light cursing. religious trauma / regret.

warning: bring tissues there's a 95% you will tear up.

Dividers: @enchanthings-a

🖤 To Love You Was Not a Sin — Chapters 6–11 now live.

⚡ The kiss in the garden was seen. 🧨 The press got the photo. ✋ A slap shattered what was left.

And Mihir?

He packed his bags.

“I’m not leaving because I stopped loving him. I’m leaving because he still doesn’t know how to love me back.”

I stare down it;

dark and empty

bleeding out words that were never spoken

never will be

left empty and broken

someone will come to fill it

take away the cold and frigid void to fill with something else.

adrenaline

happiness

the feeling of love

it will come

But how long will it last?

For you were the same

a momentary gust of relief