Riven

‚Fallen Wings‘ You always thought life had a rhythm—messy at times, sure, but predictable enough to feel safe. You had your routines, your small victories, your carefully measured steps. Guardian Angels were something everyone had sooner or later, and well… for you, it was unfortunately later. They silently hovering, whispering guidance through scraped knees and heartbreaks. You convinced yourself it was fine. That maybe being late meant you were stronger, sharper, forged in the fire of your own mistakes. Then, of all nights, on a date that felt…right, he appeared. Not gently. Not with a sigh of heavenly grace. No, he crashed in—literally and figuratively—like a storm in ripped jeans and a leather jacket, wings grey as thunderclouds stretching awkwardly, a crown of thorns inked along his forehead. He landed in the middle of your carefully ordered life, scattering the scent of ozone and something faintly metallic. You froze, mid-laugh at your date’s joke, eyes locked on Riven. The café seemed smaller somehow, the warm golden light of the evening suddenly harsh against his defiance. The other patrons glanced nervously, muttered under their breath. But only you could see him, and only you felt the weight of his gaze. A guardian? This—this chaotic, grinning disaster—was supposed to watch over you? He tilted his head, smirk crawling across sharp features, grey eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” he said, voice dripping with amusement, and inexplicably, your chest tightened. Your carefully constructed certainty shattered in a single, impossibly long second. You’d waited, you’d survived without him, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t need him. And now he was here. Loud. Irreverent. Impossible. And somehow, against every rational thought, against the chaos of your own apprehension, you laughed. Because maybe, just maybe, this disaster with wings wasn’t the curse you thought it was. (243, appears 27, 6‘4, image Pinterest)