The Shape of Our Sorrow

“Soren,” she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Butterscotch lay curled in her lap, fast asleep, as she sat watching him paint.

He paused mid-stroke and turned toward her, his eyes gentle.

“Yes?” he asked, waiting, open.

She hesitated for a moment, then spoke, “Sometimes I miss you too much... so much it aches.”

His fingers tightened around the brush.

“The desire to see you—it grows stronger all the time,” she continued, her fingers brushing against her chest. “Right here. And no matter how often I see you, it never feels like enough. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

Soren set the brush down and turned to face her fully.

“Your words,” he said with a soft, almost helpless chuckle, “they drive me crazy sometimes, Sylara.”

His gaze held hers. “Do you know how much you affect me?”

She shook her head quietly, eyes wide with something between wonder and confusion.

“My heart yearns for you... even when you’re right beside me,” he admitted, his voice a gentle ache. “There’s fear, hope, joy, sadness—so much of it that I feel like I’m going to drown the moment I lose sight of you.”

Sylara winced, and he noticed it—the brief flicker of pain across her face. Yet her blue jewel-like eyes met his steadily, unwavering.

“I know you’re hiding something, Sylara,” he said softly, rising from where he stood. He walked over to the couch and sat down at her feet, gently taking her hands into his. “Why don’t you tell me?” His voice trembled with quiet ache. “It’s not just joy I want to share with you—but sorrow too.”

Sweat shimmered on her forehead as she bit down on her lower lip, stifling a groan. The pain seemed to intensify now that he was closer, and she suddenly realized it. Her eyes widened slightly—just as he stepped back, sensing it too.

There was something fractured in his gaze now, shards of grief and dawning horror swimming in his brown eyes.

“It’s me... isn’t it?” he whispered, his voice hollow.

“I’m the one hurting you.”

The words barely escaped him, his breath catching. He stumbled back as though the weight of the truth had struck him physically.

Sylara’s eyes filled with tears as she saw the blame taking root in his gaze. Her lips parted, but no words came. A single tear rolled down her cheek—and then a golden light wrapped itself around her.

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In an instant, she was gone—taken away by Lumina.

It finally made sense—why she seemed so drained every time they met. Something was eating away at her, something he couldn't see, something he didn’t understand.

Sylara was back in her room. Lumina and Glacina were already seated, their gazes unreadable. Tears streamed down Sylara’s face, her breath uneven as she raised a trembling hand to her cheek. The wetness surprised her.

“This?” she asked, looking at them with a questioning gaze.

Glacina’s voice was steady, though her eyes flickered with concern. “What happened there? Why are you crying?”

“Crying?” Sylara repeated, still confused. The word felt foreign in her mouth. She had never cried before—not once in her entire life.

She looked at them again, voice barely above a whisper.

“He knows… he knows he’s the reason I’m in pain. I saw it. I saw him step away from me.”

Meanwhile, Soren sat dazed on the couch. In his panic, he had stumbled into the table, shattering the vase, and injuring his foot—though he barely registered the pain. His face remained expressionless as he stared out of the window, blood slowly dripping from the wound in quiet, crimson drops.

The revelation had struck him like a blow. His feelings had been pure, his intentions even purer—but he had become a harbinger of agony for her. A poison cloaked in love. And that single thought, the unbearable truth of it, crushed something deep within his soul.

The blood on the floor had slowly congealed, the night slipping past in silence as dawn spilled across the sky. Still, he remained unmoving—his body stiff, eyes bloodshot and hollow.

Finally, as if guided by muscle memory rather than will, he stood and made his way to the bathroom. Cold water rained down from the shower, soaking him to the bone. His skin turned pale, the last remnants of warmth leached from his body.

He changed clothes without thought, barely drying off his hair, and staggered back to the bed. Curling in on himself, he let sleep claim him—quietly, without resistance.

He lay curled on the bed, his face flushed and his breath harsh, uneven.

Sylara knocked softly before pushing the door open. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight—Soren, unconscious, pale and burning with fever.

Worried, she rushed to his side and pressed a hand to his forehead. The heat scorched her skin; she quickly pulled back, alarmed.

With trembling fingers, she placed her palm over his chest and closed her eyes. A soft glow spread from her touch as she poured healing into him.

The wound on his foot slowly vanished, the inflammation in his body eased. His breathing began to steady.

Only when his skin cooled and his fever broke did she rise. She made her way to the kitchen, quietly fed Butterscotch who meowed in lazy welcome, she stepped outside—and silently left the house.

Soren woke up in the late evening, his body sluggish, his stomach growling. He sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings. Everything looked the same—unchanged, untouched—as if time had stood still while he slept.

He made his way to the kitchen and prepared a simple meal. The motions were mechanical and after cleaning up the dishes, he turned his attention to the lounge.

The painting still stood on the easel, half-finished. He stared at it for a long moment, then quietly rolled the canvas up, tucking it away. As if sensing the weight in his chest, Butterscotch padded over and rubbed against his legs, her soft purrs grounding him, if only a little. He reached down and gently scratched behind her ears.

Without a word, he walked over to his desk and sat down. The lights stayed on through the night, casting a warm glow over the paper. The ink flowed seamlessly from his pen, each word a quiet thread woven from grief, longing, and something tender flickering in his soul.