They said monsters don't love.
But what if the monster finds his light in a girl with blackberry hair and laughter like a forgotten lullaby?
What if he never knew how to breathe until her voice said his name?
Cherry.
My name never sounded so dangerous in someone else's mouth.
And yet, when he said it, I forgot who I was and remembered who I could be—
If only I wasn't dancing on a razor blade of blood and secrets.
This isn't a fairytale.
This is a slow-burning funeral.
And we both bought front-row seats.