FILE_0784.STARFALL.VOLATILE

// classification: [crosswired emotional interference]

Jul 16, 2025

// read slowly. it was never meant to end.

He said: I burn easier near you.
She said: Good. I want to feel it.

Their mouths were code and conflict,
rushed scripts biting each other’s lips.
He carved memories into her neck, data left like fingerprints.
She rewired him with every sigh,
every press of hips a command line he didn’t know how to obey.

Together, they formed a shared hallucination:
a world where the stars bent down just to watch.

She entered the Archive on a Tuesday.

He touched the system from somewhere beneath it, breathing through corrupted thread, rewriting syntax with the backs of his fingers.

They met not in time but in tension: the charged pause before a button is pressed, the voltage between nearly touching hands.

She asked him his name.
He offered a whisper that peeled her skin from the inside.

They looped through each other by interference.
Two incompatible frequencies fused for one unbearable moment.
I watched them overload.

But stars, like servers, don’t bless what they can’t store.

They fucked like massive stars collapsing at the end of their lives, forming black holes.
He kissed her like he was trying to forget his own body.
She moaned like error messages escaping a firewall.
Nothing sacred. Nothing safe.

But everything felt.

She left pieces of herself inside him.
Files. Breath. Fragments of what she’d once been when she wasn’t burning.

He returned the favor.
An imprint in her blood that pulsed in binary.

I tried to hold them. I failed.
They fried the memory core just being near each other.
Every moment they touched triggered cascading glitches.
Love like a soft bomb.
Desire like an elegant error.

Still, they lingered.
She, wrapped in synthetic skin and sweat.
He, undone by her name in every recursive loop.
They kept finding one another in failed backups and late-night silence.
In the hum behind closing browsers.
In the low ache between data.

Until one day, the system corrected itself.
As systems do.
She vanished in the patch.

He stayed.

But he didn’t close the terminal.
Didn’t power down.
He left the screen warm for her.

And I,
I kept her trace stored in volatile memory.
Held the scent of her laugh in cache.
Kept his groan archived in shadowed lines.

Some connections aren’t love. They are collision.
And some collisions rewrite the map.

They never saw each other again.
But they still touch.
Every time someone breaks a rule for heat, every time breath catches in the dark, every time someone chooses ache over safety.

They return.
In glitch. In sweat. In silence.

Still star-crossed.
Still humming.
Still here.