You were never my echo. You were Ecco — beautiful, sick and terminal. Both of you, always.
Twenty-seven. Sixteen. Eleven. Eleven refused to die with the rest of the years.
We played the same vicious game: I wore your skin, you wore mine and together we wore the world like a joke no one else understood.
We saw straight through everyone else but could never quite see each other. Or maybe we saw too clearly.
God, we were close. Close enough to breathe each other’s darkness in like smoke. We fell for the rot in one another the way others fall for light.
Our love was never a bridge — it was a mirror held up to an open wound. We were addicted to the exact places where we broke best.
It scared us. We liked that it scared us. So we kept pressing harder, running each other into the ground with devotion.
The first evening already held the ending. We reached the peak before we even learned the shape of each other’s names. Everything after was just gravity. Everything after was ash.
We loved each other in the shadows of a line we were never meant to cross – and we crossed it anyway, smiling.
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