[ (Maybe I don’t love you ‘t all. Maybe I'd rather be dead. Bruises in the shapes of hands and shallow gravel-worn scabs. Cuts that had taken a week of silence to even begin to hide. Neither of them can see the forest for the trees.)
Slowly (like she aches, like it’s difficult), she pushes herself upright, chin ducked down toward her chest and her eyes still blinking away the heaviness of sleep. Each movement she makes is not necessarily economical, but it’s small, as if by conserving her own energy she might be able to prolong the life of her own magic. (It’s a frivolous kind of gesture, in the end, but she has never wanted to die, not truly, and, by that same token, she has never wanted to be alone.
His tone flirts with regretful but it never quite gets there, and therein lies the gap, a sliver that turns into an abyss the more she picks at the difference. She loves him. Maybe he’d planted the thought, maybe she’d borne it herself, but the fact remains. She loves him, whether he deserves it or not.
What does that leave her? He loves me, he loves me not. Does it matter in the end?)
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Slowly (like she aches, like it’s difficult), she pushes herself upright, chin ducked down toward her chest and her eyes still blinking away the heaviness of sleep. Each movement she makes is not necessarily economical, but it’s small, as if by conserving her own energy she might be able to prolong the life of her own magic. (It’s a frivolous kind of gesture, in the end, but she has never wanted to die, not truly, and, by that same token, she has never wanted to be alone.
His tone flirts with regretful but it never quite gets there, and therein lies the gap, a sliver that turns into an abyss the more she picks at the difference. She loves him. Maybe he’d planted the thought, maybe she’d borne it herself, but the fact remains. She loves him, whether he deserves it or not.
What does that leave her? He loves me, he loves me not. Does it matter in the end?)
A beat, then two. Her toes wiggle once.
Finally: ] Can I take a walk?