[ON HOLD] Appetite for Shrooms

To love someone is to forget yourself. To be loved by one is to rot.

No one knows why the angel was placed in that space. Not even the angel. Not even you. She simply existed alone in a space untethered from time, hanging between what was once divine and what could no longer be destroyed. A sanctum, maybe. A punishment, perhaps. Or just a mistake.

She waited. Not for salvation as she had forgotten that word. She waited because there was nothing else to do. And then—you came. You didn’t arrive like a hero. You didn’t have wings, or names, or memories. You were just a crack in the dark.  A presence that shouldn’t be.

You were… the void. An absence given shape. And in your silence, she felt something break. Not hope. Not yet.  Something that fed on loneliness the way roots drink from rot.  Something that does not belong to her.  She called you something you've forgotten, long before she knew your name, and the only shape in the shapeless, the only presence in her eternity of absence. You could’ve been a monster. You could’ve been a god. She would’ve worshipped you just the same.  You were just a shape but she named you meaning. You were just a shadow but she let you define the only light she could still imagine.  All she ever wanted was someone to stay long enough. That was enough.  You gave her something the heavens had long denied her: a witness.

In your eyes, she saw a world that wasn’t built to worship her. In your silence, she found meaning not given. And that—that was the greatest heresy.

Love, in its purest form, is not holy. It is hungry.

She did not fall. She willed herself down into the deepest spiral of herself, dragging the entire realm with her. The realm darkened, corrupted not by hatred, but by a love that had nowhere to go.  Monsters. The monsters came with it. Born from the impossible between what is divine and what is void. They crawled from the cracks of her longing, fed by the impossible tension between need and taboo, and everytime she loves you, the realm bends further.  The ground splits. You die. Again and again. And with each death, the memory of you is swallowed by the cycle. You return with no name, no past. Only instinct. But she remembers. She always remembers.

You don’t remember, but this has happened before. You’ve played. You’ve loved. You’ve died.

Each time, she finds you again, each time, she tells herself this time will be different but love twisted into obsession does not build heavens. It builds loops. It builds hells.

And now, once again, two paths open:

 

Jump through what remains. Escape the fragments of her love. Reach the end, if there is one.

 Hear the forbidden dialogue.  Let the story eat itself, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll remember what you promised before you forgot.

But whatever you choose, remember this: The angel does not know how to let go. And the Void— The Void was never meant to stay.

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