Page 41 of Knot Your Fated M.U.S.E.

The real stories hide beneath, written in blood and tears, in midnight calls that come too early, in boxes of magic left unopened because some truths cut too deep to touch.

I knew it even then, in that frozen moment of connection. Nothing this perfect could last.

Unless it was a trap waiting to catch its prey.

But god, how I wanted to believe. How I wished to be that very moth heading towards that burning flame, knowing what catch would send me into a burning oblivion.

The moment shattered like sugar glass.

She blinked, the van door slid shut with the finality of a coffin lid, and engines roared to life with a sound like destiny laughing at the mortal presumption.

Just like that, she was gone, taking with her the scent of promise and possibilities.

I could have followed if I'd known then what emptiness waited in my near future. Fought to interrupt whatever was hidden in that valley to track down this Omega who’s scent teased of memories I thought would forever stay forgotten and buried.

Looking back now, with legs that barely work and a future measured in declining abilities, I wonder if everything would be different if I'd chased that van.

If I'd trusted that moment of connection.

Believed in the magic of teal frosting and magenta dreams one last time.

But fairy tales lie like lovers at midnight, sweet and seductive and utterly false.

Laughable when you think about it now.

The irony of life in this sinister world who shows mercy to no one.

The water's gone completely cold now, or maybe that's just me.

Getting out is always the worst part – a battle between pride and necessity that pride loses more often with each passing day.

I reach for the metal bars installed along the tub's edge, my personal cage of accessibility that transforms my bathroom into something between a hospital ward and a prison cell.

The chrome gleams mockingly in the overhead light as I grip it, preparing for the herculean task of hauling myself upright when my legs refuse to cooperate.

Like puppets with half their strings cut…

I think bitterly, watching the useless limbs float in the water. There's an art to this now, a careful choreography of upper body strength and momentum that lets me pretend I'm still somewhat independent.

The transfer bench waits beside the tub – another concession to reality I fought against until a particularly bad fall made the choice for me.

Water cascades off my body as I maneuver onto the bench, each movement calculated to minimize strain on legs that barely register sensation anymore. The towel is within easy reach – I've learned to position everything just so, creating an environment where I can maintain at least the illusion of self-sufficiency.

The ritual of drying off and dressing has become an exercise in patience and strategy. Soft flannel pajama pants wait on the heated towel rack, another small luxury that makes the process slightly less humiliating.

Getting them on requires a series of practiced movements, lifting and manipulating legs that feel increasingly like dead weight attached to my body.

"Preservation through minimal usage," the doctors had said, as if rationing my remaining mobility like wartime supplies would somehow stave off the inevitable.

Still, I follow their advice in the evenings when no one's watching, when I can drop the pretense of fighting against the decline. Save the strength for when it matters, for the moments when I need my pack to believe I'm not completely useless yet.

It forces me to think what it would be like to have an Omega around to assist me in times like these. One that didn’t mind that I was a dying cause or waste of time. I’ve envisioned what it could be to have her help without judgement or guilt. To feel her warmth as tenderly soft hands graze lightly across my flesh, moving upward with each button before she leans in and gives me an encouraging kiss.

Dreams. All of it.

I quietly laugh at how pitiful it is to even imagine such possibilities.

No Omega wants a disabled Alpha…

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