Corrupted Love -v0.9- By Ric0h -

You learned to reassemble yourself from the shards. Not healed, not whole, but functional. You stopped romanticizing the idea of fixing what was broken and instead catalogued lessons—what to keep, what to burn, what to file away in the memory closet for reference. You started drawing again, tracing the silhouette of a hand that refused to be entirely yours.

Days later, you discovered her sketchbook tucked in the bottom drawer. Inked pages were half-finished portraits—faces blurred in all the places you knew too well—not with anger but with a methodical, almost scientific removal. She had been practicing erasure. It was art and apology at once. Corrupted Love -v0.9- By RIC0H

You spent weeks calibrating: which words would land like salt and which would sting. She loved museums at the hour they closed, when the guards blinked slow and the lights softened; you learned to touch her hand during those dim tours, fingers aligning like two pieces finally tested and matched. Later, in alleys that smelled of rain and takeout, you watched her take a half-hearted swing at the world and felt proud that you were the one she let stand in the way. You learned to reassemble yourself from the shards

Corruption creeps in subtly. A promise turned into a ledger: favors owed, apologies counted on callused palms. The calls grew fewer; when she spoke, there was the rumble of another voice beneath hers, a static you never cleared. She’d tell you she was fine and the line between truth and performance thinned until the notion of trust was something you could bend and twist into shapes that fit the moment. You started drawing again, tracing the silhouette of