The Kiss of the Void

The Kiss of the Void
Nadia Vale moved through the marble halls of the Institute for Consciousness Studies like a queen who had grown bored with her throne. At thirty-five, she was a vision that stopped conversations mid-sentence: long legs, full breasts that strained against silk blouses, raven-black hair falling in heavy waves, and eyes the color of aged bourbon that seemed to see straight through lies. As the lead researcher on the biology of meaning, she had grants, acclaim, and a penthouse overlooking the Thames that most people would kill for. Yet every evening, when the city lights flickered on, she stood at her window in nothing but a silk robe and felt the same gnawing emptiness between her ribs.
Love had always been a beautiful lie. There was the Oxford professor who could discourse on Plato but fucked like a man reading instructions. The sculptor who captured her naked form in clay but never once made her feel truly seen. Each orgasm left her more hollow, each relationship a reminder that pleasure was easy, but meaning was a ghost that slipped through her fingers.
The dreams began on the night of the blood moon.

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