Page 132 of King Of Order

One minute, I was aware of my body and the world around me. The following, it was as if I was gone, only the shell of me left behind.

The waves of panicked shadows terrified me while the hours of peace buoyed me.

Nevertheless, I was petrified that I wouldn’t be able to stop the constant switching between light and dark.

That I’d stay like this, trapped in this half-life for days, weeks, maybe forever.

On one hand, I was horrified of staying in that state, afraid I’d disappear completely. But on the other, the pull to give up was so strong.

The temptation to zone out into nothingness, to escape the torment in my psyche, was the only relief I had left. It was as if I was fighting to remain conscious, to keep my soul anchored to my body.

It drained me day by day. The longer I stayed in this condition, the more my life force was slipping away.

Like I was losing the very essence of who I was. I didn’t want to be reduced to this hollow, blank-eyed version of myself, staring into space while my mind retreated into some unreachable corner.

I desired to feel alive again, to shake off the quiet stares and the borrowed energy I’d been surviving on.

I wanted to be me again, not this distant, fading shadow of a person. But I didn’t know if I possessed the capacity to. I didn’t know if I’d ever come back from this. That fear of losing my soul—was like a weight pressing down on my chest, making it more demanding and more strenuous to breathe.

I was afraid it would only get worse, that I’d spiral deeper into this emptiness and never find my way out. I didn’t know if anyone was capable enough to pull me back from the edge.

Yet I wanted it.

With a wild desperation.

I didn’t know how to fight anymore.

Until Rio’s words pulled me from the brink.

VALERIO

I stood in the doorway, my breath catching, heart burning, as she painted.

The terrace, bathed in the soft hues of sunset, was glowing with light. The sky was ablaze with gold, pink, and lavender, but this was nothing compared to what unfolded on the canvas before her.

Chiara’s hands moved with a quiet grace as though every stroke was a secret she was letting out for the first time.

Her brush dipped into the tints, blending them with an almost otherworldly precision, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

How she captured the illumination—how the colors bled together, warm and melancholy at the same time—was mesmerizing.

But it wasn’t just the sunset she was painting.

She was exposing herself, showing me the depths of her soul and the battle she’d been waging in silence.

Her pain, her hope, her fragile strength—it was all there in every stroke.

I moved closer, like something beyond me was pulling me toward her.

She glanced up for a beat, her eyes soft but distant, and then turned back to the canvas, continuing without a word.

She didn’t need to say anything.

She was having a better day.

Her stillness wasn’t the same oppressive weight it had been for days—it seemed more peaceful like we’d reached a place where words weren’t needed.

I stayed beside her, watching her work, the last rays of the day sinking behind the horizon.

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