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Violet woke up from her sleepy haze after a night of drinking. She had fallen asleep listening to her favorite tunes — a normal ritual by now. She liked the moments where she didn’t feel anything. Just a somber, peaceful sleep while doing something she loved.
Still half-drunk, she pushed herself out of bed and walked to her desk.
She had a plan for today. A big one. And she wanted to do it before she lost her nerve.
She unlocked the drawer, pulled out her revolver, and a single bullet. Her hands shook — adrenaline, that fight-or-flight burn in her chest. The twisted longing for death pulsed through her like electricity. It made her feel alive in the worst way possible. It was her personal piece of heaven and hell at the same time.
She loaded the weapon, spun the cylinder, and raised it to her head. She breathed in deeply.
Her desk stared back at her, covered in small framed memories. One photo of her mother — the only family she still spoke to. Another of her and her father before he died. And the last one: her girlfriend, the woman she loved too much.
The rush of emotion hit deep. Violet growled under her breath, slammed the revolver back into the drawer, and shut it hard.
“Ain’t worth it…”
The reason she wanted to try again was the same reason she stopped: love. Unfiltered, unmistakable love. Killing herself out of pain wouldn’t help anyone. Least of all her.
The truth was ugly and simple: Violet Duarte saw herself as a misfit, a mess.
A “waste of oxygen,” in her own words.
She couldn’t keep a job longer than a week. She didn’t have many friends. She had ruined her chance to study and become something. The only thing she had was the small apartment bought with the money her father left behind.
Her girlfriend was wonderful — genuinely good. Violet loved her so much and wanted to be better for her. But she couldn’t escape her past.
Everything started with her first love. It was mutual, warm, exactly what she needed while she was helping her mom fight through her dad’s cancer. All those feelings surged out of her like a dam breaking. She had never learned how to handle them.
Her family had always been distant, always fighting, always splitting each other open with words. When she found love — real or not — she got addicted. It helped her stay alive when the world was falling apart.
That first love ended badly, but she thought it had taught her something. It made surviving her father’s death easier; at least she didn’t grieve alone.
Her mother tried to be emotionally present when she was younger, but she was always trapped between being a mom and surviving an abusive fiancé. He never hit them, but the emotional and psychological abuse left scars. Deep ones.
After he died, her mother tried to move on, tried to find meaning again — even another man to “take care of her.” Violet left soon after. She couldn’t live in that house anymore, not with the guilt and the distance between them.
And Violet repeated the same cycle.
Just like her mother.
She never cared for herself. She rushed into relationships. She loved too hard, too fast, too intensely. Most lasted a few months. Her longest, almost two years, still fell apart because she drowned the person with love until they couldn’t breathe.
The love they once had for her faded under the weight of her devotion.
All Violet had left was her love — messy, obsessive, overwhelming.
Her heart was the only part of her that refused to die.
She was with someone now, someone good, but her heart was still stuck on someone else. She never forgot the passion she felt for her best friend, the warmth, the safety. They flirted, they gave her the space to feel loved, and that was enough to get her hooked. They helped her quit addictions, helped her escape her harsh reality.
But they made it clear from the start:
They weren’t romantically available.
They were in love with someone else.
Ironically, that was what drew Violet to them even more. They were both chasing the same thing — love, attention, validation. A place to belong.
She needed that fantasy. That closeness. Even if most of it lived only in her imagination.
A moment passed — dissociation, drifting.
When she came back to herself, sunlight was slipping through the window.
Daybreak.
She needed air. She grabbed her coat and left.
The morning sun was warm on her face. She jogged through empty streets until she found a grassy hill far from town. She collapsed into the grass, letting the sun soak into her skin.
Freedom.
Real, quiet freedom.
But her heart stayed cold. A void. A heavy, dark space that chewed at her from the inside. Still… maybe she could open it again. Slowly. Carefully. She was glad she met someone wonderful — even if they would never be hers.
She wanted to move on.
She needed to.
Her feelings would always be honest, but she couldn’t keep loving someone who didn’t want her love. She was finally learning that.
She wanted to love again — naturally, gently, without chasing the high she once mistook for love. Without confusing addiction with affection.
The truth finally clicked into place, soft but sharp.
Violet smiled to herself, almost bitter but relieved, and whispered:
“Limerence…”