Taeyang
Denial is a quite death of Love
The moment her mark lit up like a damn sunrise, I should’ve stepped forward. I should’ve reached for her—touched her, claimed her, anything. But I stood there like a coward with a blade at my throat, too frozen, too afraid, too fucking damned.
Her eyes were glowing. Full of wonder. Hope.
Until they weren’t.
Until she looked at me like I was the one who shattered it all.
And maybe I was.
Because I said nothing. Did nothing.
I let her turn away.
I watched her walk off with her head bowed and her shoulders trembling, and every step she took away from me felt like something inside me was being peeled apart—layer by brutal, bleeding layer.
She thinks I don’t want her.
And gods help me… I almost let her believe that.
But I do.
I want her like breath. Like blood. Like the only soft thing I’ve ever needed in this ruined world.
My hand curled into a fist at my chest, over the mark that hadn’t stopped burning since she looked at me. I could still feel her, like a thread wound tight through my ribs, tugging with every step she took away.
And I let her go.
Because I was afraid. Not of her—never her. But of what it meant. What it would make me become.
A mate. A weakness. A man capable of love.
I was born to fight. To protect. Not to feel.
And yet here I am—on my knees in the dirt, feeling like I’m bleeding from the inside out.
What have I done?
What the fuck have I done?
The wind howled around me like it knew.
She marked me—and I marked her. And I turned my back on her the second it became real.
I buried my face in my hands, every instinct screaming at me to run after her. To find her. To tell her that she is not too human, too soft, too anything.
She is mine.
And I am hers.
But instead, I sat there in silence.
Because denial is a quiet death.
And I was already dying long before she ever looked at me like I was worthy.