[incompare]

do not follow. i literally post ten year old ask prompts i've hoarded for zawn and nothing else.

[incompare]

> @00078292 — ‘how strange i used to worship you.’

he's there, but he's not really. the sound of sam's voice borders on whimsical, fascinated by the peculiarity of ever really loving her at all. it is more brutal than any bruise that sam could grant her, both absent and extant in ways that emma could not fathom, as though he had procured the most simplest of thoughts. perhaps it is stranger still that she ever thought the thing between them real. [she of all people should know that worship required extraordinaire— men did not fall to their knees for just anyone, building their altars to service a name with no face. or rather, an idea; a concept, an invisible impossibility that managed little else but alleviate the artificial woes of the abstract man.] did emma truly think herself worthy of such deification, when her abilities withered under the light— as unremarkable as one could be among a divine sea of super-beings. she was little cricket after all. just a girl who could get small. and yet, emma had felt it all so intensely— every word, every laugh, the static that buzzed between them that seemed to boom through touch alone. under his gallant gaze, she tripled in size. now? emma felt smaller than ever, as though she could rival an atom beneath the agonising indifference of his stare, her skin cold as though he were capable of freezing the air around them.

‘you— i don't understand any of this.’ her face is pinched and blooming red with some scarcely-contained tears; her pain outweighing her strength. there's a banal thought pulsing inside her eye socket that sam was supposed to be different, not like other boys, that he would never make her feel small in all the ways high school puts a teenage girl down. but sam was worse, digging into her insecurities and ripping them out like entrails, unspooling them before her in an untimed, leisurely manner, like a magician pulling an endless supply of scarves from his sleeve. [and still, her mind convinces her the fault is none but her own. maybe she'd been too pushy, that she'd tricked him somehow into loving her. that she'd kept too much from him, kept him outside secrets in the worry of what he could do.] nausea tickles the warmth in her cheeks and suddenly emma feels an overwhelming urge to kneel down in the nearest bathroom stall. ‘why are you doing this?’