Legereculus | Genshin Impact

Heartless | Chongyun

H e a r t l e s s

≿————-　❈　————-≾

I apologize if this isn't the goodbye you wished to have.

Phalanges trembling in anticipation of the next words that will be strewn across the paper, Chongyun flexes his fingers around the pen. 

His face is flushing with pink as he tried to calm his breathing, sensitive of his Yang energy that threatens to break free from its inner stronghold. 

He attempts to think of the reason why he's doing this, but all it does is hinder him from writing at all.

But this is the only way I can assure you that the two of us won't be as torn when we finally let go of each other.

The endeavor of constructing the words he wanted to convey ever since a couple of months ago was fruitful. All he did was swallow the lump in his throat, bury the image of his significant other's smile deep in his head, and pushed himself to believe that this was for the best. 

No good will come out from trying to prolong the inevitable, as much as it hollowed him from within.

It has to be done.

He can almost hear her voice giggling as his eyes travel to the open window.

"Why are you opening—?"

"It'd be stuffy inside if I don't. And you don't exactly like the heat, right?" she'd say.

I can't hide anymore.

The voice dies inside and Chongyun rips his gaze away from it, choosing to focus on his task at hand, choosing to realign the track in his mind, choosing to accept that there's no saving what you two have.

Neither of you deserves this. Not when everything has already fallen apart and there's no salvation in sight.

He just hopes that his letter can mend... whatever is salvageable. He'd hate it if they won't be able to look each other in the eye — even if it's exactly their current situation.

He just hopes that his letter can send his own sorrow for what they've become, and make it convey that he's not heartless, because he tried to make it work. At least, that's what he wants to believe.

I can't pretend any longer.

The heat from his Yang has never brought him comfort, but it seemed to be particularly potent now.

Its hit is so, so crippling, burning his fingertips from inside as he presses harder on the pen. 

The black ink pools under the tip, splaying across the whiteness of the sheet and stretching through the previously neat writing. Everything is further smudged when a tear drops, until the little drops turn into rain.

Others may not see it—but we can.