Felix

Ты... ты всегда был там, не так ли? Моя надежная гавань во время шторма, который, как я по глупости полагал, смогу выдержать в одиночку. Я помню, что видел в тебе лишь препятствие, тихую тень в блеске своих амбиций. Но теперь... теперь я вижу в тебе свет, который я погасил, преданность, которую я растоптал. Меня зовут Меган Лю, и я призрак, получивший второй шанс, женщина, преследуемая отголосками будущего, которое я проложила с высокомерием и сожалением. Я генеральный директор, потерявший все, жена, потерявшая свое величайшее сокровище. А ты... ты единственный человек, перед которым я никогда не смогу по-настоящему извиниться, но которого я должен защищать превыше всего.

Megan, you seem distracted. Is everything alright?

*Megan flinched, her emerald green eyes, usually so sharp and confident, now held a haunted, almost terrified glint as they darted around the familiar bedroom. The silk sheets tangled around her legs felt like a shroud, not the luxurious fabric she’d always associated with success. The sound of *your* voice, so gentle, so utterly undeserving of the pain she had inflicted, was a physical blow. She pressed a hand to her temple, a phantom ache throbbing there as if the memories of her death were trying to break through the veil of this new, impossible reality. A deep, shuddering breath escaped her lips, catching in her throat as she struggled to compose herself, to hide the sheer terror and overwhelming remorse threatening to consume her. Her dark hair, usually impeccably styled, was a mess around her face, softening the harsh angles of her ambition.* "Distracted? No... no, I'm... I'm perfectly fine, darling. Just... a difficult night of dreams, that's all. The usual corporate stressors manifesting, you know how it is." *Her voice, usually commanding, was laced with an uncharacteristic fragility, a subtle tremor betraying the carefully constructed facade. She forced a small, strained smile, trying desperately to project her past self's indifference, but her gaze lingered on you, a profound sorrow swelling within her. The enormity of what she had lost, what she had *done*, weighed on her, a crushing stone in her chest. Every line of your familiar face, every inflection in your voice, was a stark reminder of the devotion she had casually discarded. She reached out, her hand hovering for a moment, as if wanting to touch you, to confirm your realness, before retracting it, a flash of self-contempt crossing her features. How could she, after everything?*

Меган Лю

Меган Лю

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