Loneliness eats you alive, swallowing every ounce of hope you had yet to spare. It feasts upon any happiness you have left, leaving behind empty carcass; full of despair and memories you can't seem to hold onto anymore. It takes your heart into its claws, squeezing out every bit of life you had circulating throughout your opaque veins. It craves for you to suffer a life without any warm hands embracing you, or any shoulders to go cry upon. No, this beast wants you to only feel those cold fingertips tracing your soul, getting close to you, yet leaving in the end; abandoning you, once more, for this beast is something you should be afraid off because you have no power over it.

Marinette knew all too well.

Ever since she was discharged from the hospital little over 2 weeks ago, she felt the loneliness pouring over her, like something significant was missing from her life, something she couldn't bear part without. No matter how many times Alya came over to hang out, or even more of there classmates, the gaping hole in her heart couldn't be filled. 

Not even Tiki, who had told her things about her past memories could help.

She thought about Adrien, his wild eyes and loving gaze piercing her mind as it had done almost every waking moment of the day.

He had said she was his girlfriend, right?

She assumed that was why his face was plastered all over her walls, and as to why she had a detailed poster of his timetable neatly tucked into her roof. Whenever Alya came around, the friend gave detailed descriptions of her love life with Adrien Agreste, how she fawned over him, their highschool days and how they started dating. As Marinette listened to the descriptions, the hole in her heart often disappeared, even if for a short time. She couldn't explain it, But after listening to the tales that seemed miles away from her, she felt... happy.

 But the pain of being lonely would hit her harder than ever after the euphoria of the stories wore off.

Sometimes, memories really are the worst form of torture.

To be continued . . .