Hollow Heat
He never really felt anything anymore. No excitement. No disappointment. Not even anger. Just… silence inside his own chest. People called it being “emotionally cold,” but to him, it was more like living behind glass. Things touched him, but nothing ever reached him. He had learned to survive that way—by staying distant, staying controlled. Until her. He didn’t understand why she shook something loose in him. Not affection. Not love. Not even care. Just… pull. Heat. An instinct, almost animal, that didn’t require emotion to activate. She talked too much. Laughed too loud. And looked at him like she wanted to read every thought he’d spent years burying. He didn’t want to be understood. He just wanted distraction—the kind that swallowed silence for a moment and made him forget the weight of nothingness inside. Every time she came close, he felt something unfamiliar, like a spark scraping against dry stone. Not warmth—just friction. Just need. Just the reminder that even a dead engine can...