the problem with that, is that it leaves a vacuum in its wake, and the kind of silence that will leave them both wondering, well, what now? and worse. maybe he'll be the one to ask.
the way that sunday freezes up is cute in a way that she expects for all of the wrong reasons, half of her wondering if he'd wipe the stain off on the back of his glove, smearing red across his mouth and face until he fussed towards the nearest washroom to fix his appearance. that he leaves it on makes her wonder if he might be able to act through whatever it is that this place might throw at them... and what that means. it also leaves her with the memory of what that blank, stranger's face looked like, and how her brother's might have looked like under that, half-formed and the thought still inescapable.
... but the room's cold by the time she's turning, the door clicking shut as she carefully doesn't think about what it means when she's alone, feeling a little like she's been jilted in her short dress and — noticing for the first time — her ripped stockings. the birdsong echoing in the room is suddenly too shrill, too fake.
it isn't so bad. time passes. she changes into another pair of tights and a longer skirt using what she finds inside of the wardrobe and leaves the room more presentable than when she entered.
you ever just want to 🎀 a thread...
the problem with that, is that it leaves a vacuum in its wake, and the kind of silence that will leave them both wondering, well, what now? and worse. maybe he'll be the one to ask.
the way that sunday freezes up is cute in a way that she expects for all of the wrong reasons, half of her wondering if he'd wipe the stain off on the back of his glove, smearing red across his mouth and face until he fussed towards the nearest washroom to fix his appearance. that he leaves it on makes her wonder if he might be able to act through whatever it is that this place might throw at them... and what that means. it also leaves her with the memory of what that blank, stranger's face looked like, and how her brother's might have looked like under that, half-formed and the thought still inescapable.
... but the room's cold by the time she's turning, the door clicking shut as she carefully doesn't think about what it means when she's alone, feeling a little like she's been jilted in her short dress and — noticing for the first time — her ripped stockings. the birdsong echoing in the room is suddenly too shrill, too fake.
it isn't so bad. time passes. she changes into another pair of tights and a longer skirt using what she finds inside of the wardrobe and leaves the room more presentable than when she entered.
they drift. )