09-22-2025, 01:14 AM
with each love i cut loose i was never the same --
He had never known life without illusions. For most, even the gifted, there’s struggle before control. For him, there was none. He could not recall a time where he could not conjure his thoughts into dreamscapes. And as a boy, he had tried his best to turn that talent into affection, yet he quickly learned that this was one illusion not even he could craft.
Starlust, while never openly cruel, treated all of her children with a cool indifference, and nothing he made ever closed the distance she kept between them.
Perhaps it was that desperate need, the stubborn determination of a child, that sharpened his skill so quickly. But to him, mastery had always been a consolation prize — impressive to others, maybe, but never enough to fill the hollow she left. He hated how terribly cliche it all felt; a boy starving for love from his mother, growing into a man that still let fear of rejection and need for validation to shadow his thoughts.
So when the stranger praises him, it sparks something small. Pride, and though it is faint, it is there. It slips out only as the shadow of a smile, gone almost as soon as it comes, flickering more in his eyes than showing on his mouth. He watches as she coaxes the vine above them to curl and bloom. Her magic feels tangible, more real. He isn’t jealous, not exactly. But he wonders what it might be like to touch the world that way. “You seem to have your own gift, though.” He watches the vine for a few moments longer, before leveling his gaze back to her. “Were you born here?” he asks her, always curious to learn if someone carried magic from another land.
He had never known life without illusions. For most, even the gifted, there’s struggle before control. For him, there was none. He could not recall a time where he could not conjure his thoughts into dreamscapes. And as a boy, he had tried his best to turn that talent into affection, yet he quickly learned that this was one illusion not even he could craft.
Starlust, while never openly cruel, treated all of her children with a cool indifference, and nothing he made ever closed the distance she kept between them.
Perhaps it was that desperate need, the stubborn determination of a child, that sharpened his skill so quickly. But to him, mastery had always been a consolation prize — impressive to others, maybe, but never enough to fill the hollow she left. He hated how terribly cliche it all felt; a boy starving for love from his mother, growing into a man that still let fear of rejection and need for validation to shadow his thoughts.
So when the stranger praises him, it sparks something small. Pride, and though it is faint, it is there. It slips out only as the shadow of a smile, gone almost as soon as it comes, flickering more in his eyes than showing on his mouth. He watches as she coaxes the vine above them to curl and bloom. Her magic feels tangible, more real. He isn’t jealous, not exactly. But he wonders what it might be like to touch the world that way. “You seem to have your own gift, though.” He watches the vine for a few moments longer, before leveling his gaze back to her. “Were you born here?” he asks her, always curious to learn if someone carried magic from another land.
D E C E P T I O N
@Snowshadow