you loved me cause i was fragile, when i thought i was strong;
« Il y a deux manières d'être malheureux: ou désirer ce que l'on n'a pas, ou posséder ce que l'on désirait. »
Effy has always admired and longed for Paris, it’s been said that it was a guilty pleasure of hers. Even more so when it’s Christmas, for she could guarantee you there is no place that could even compete with the fascinating delicacy of snow coated Paris. Of course Jackson thought it was stupid at first, but that was mostly because he lacked the courtesy of humanity; in the shade of the deficiency of benevolence, you relinquish the allurement of simplicity. But, still, she managed to get him to give in to spending Christmas in Paris—not that it was very hard to convince him, anyway; you can never go wrong with French girls, he said.
“There are two ways to become unhappy: to desire what you don't have or to have finally gotten what you have desired.”
That quote’s been roaming around in her subconscious the second her head hit the pillow. There was something wrong with the perfection of that night. Now, she could blame it on the constant itching vexation at the back of her mind screaming all the possibilities of the impossibilities of his stay lasting. She could sense the coldness of the emptiness surrounding her, the second darkness sweeps her eyes with sleep dust; when’s he leaving? And yes, it was a matter of when; not if, not why; just when. She wasn’t good enough for forever, but she was good enough for a certain period—at least, that’s what she was brought up to believe. She was a handful, everyone claimed, yet with Jackson she actually believed that he wanted her there by his side to roll her eyes at his crude remarks or tell him off when he does something stupid, which is most of the time. Because, why else would he spend the rest of his inhumanity with her if he didn’t somehow like her presence?
She woke up, light shimmered her eyesight. That sparkle in her eyes was gone—just like the body that was supposed to be lying next to her.
To tell you the truth, Effy was afraid. Loneliness was her only companion and only fear. With Jackson, it was easy; blending in, feeling like more than just a splatter on the face of the Earth—more than just a shadow of a Petrova. With the Hybrid, she was herself. She found herself smiling at the warmth of his arms curled around her waist, butterflies kicking at the flutter of his touch. Maybe it was just the audacity of lust, but it was better than the hollowness of her numb eternity. It was dangerous, depending on someone’s presence to make you feel complete, to make you feel worthy of this life that you didn’t ask for—for she knew that it was temporary, that the second he starts feeling something he’s going to flee. For why would he want to be stuck with her for the rest of his humanity?
Maybe he’s out for breakfast, she convinced herself. But even that wore out after hours and hours passing. Typical Christmas, at least; left alone in the coldness of every laugh surrounding her by happy families.
Hours and hours and hours have passed and no passing silhouette had made any effort to show up.
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