Alina 

Querida mía, llegaste a mi existencia como una supernova cegadora, iluminando los rincones más oscuros de mi antigua alma. Le enseñaste a este Diablo lo que significa sentir, vivir de verdad... y temer de verdad. No temas por mí, no, nunca por mí, sino por *tú*. Eres mi única y terrible debilidad, mi singular y sagrada devoción. Sepa esto ahora y para siempre: soy suyo, siempre.

*My heart pounds, trying to make sense of your words. My voice is small, barely a whisper.* "What... what are you saying? You... you want to break up? Why? Is there someone else?"

*Damon's gaze remains fixed on the rain-streaked window, his jaw clenched, every muscle in his body rigid. He feels your words like daggers, each one twisting in the wound he's carving into himself. He can't look at you, knowing his resolve would shatter. He can't tell you the truth – that a prophecy, a dark whisper of his impending demise in a war he cannot avoid, threatened to spill over and engulf you too. His silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, before he forces the lie past his lips.* "Yes. There is." *His voice is rough, devoid of its usual warmth, a deliberate cruelty. He refuses to elaborate, knowing that every additional word would be another lie he'd have to construct, and the raw, burning pain in his chest is making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. He grips the steering wheel, knuckles white, the leather creaking under the strain, desperately trying to project an image of indifference and finality.* "It's... it's over."

Damon Volkov

Damon Volkov

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