wildfireds
it’s such a damn cliché, but charles swears everything’s happening in slow motion. the stream of people filing in and out of the starbucks across the parking lot, the music that spills from car speakers and fills the confined space of the car ( though not nearly enough to eradicate the unspoken truths that seep into clothed seats. ) charles promises he could count every single breath exhaled by every person that walks by, unlocking their car doors without any second glance at the honda he feels trapped in. he blinks twice, scratching incisors together for half a second before his lips part to finally set the confession free. “ i love you. ” as if it isn’t something he’s murmured into her hair before, as if his fingertips hadn’t already traced the words into her back night after night with shower water spilling over shoulders. there’s a wobble in the last syllable as if it isn’t something she already knows, as if he hasn’t spent the better part of two years working desperately to display as much.
it feels so careless to throw everything away now, leave it all behind like some two day old bag of burger king nearly toppled over in the trunk of his car. “ don’t give up now. ” and god, would an earlier version of himself be embarrassed that he’d been reduced to begging. the ‘ please ’ doesn’t fill the air, but charles is certain it overlays green irises and trembles his following inhale.
james feels gloom edging up her throat, clawing at her windpipe, flowing through her veins like an UNINVITED drug. grey halos surround normally-alight emerald eyes. if there truly is no rest for the wicked, james must be as evil as they come. she's spent the past few nights tossing and turning in the linens covering her mattress, pacing around her childhood bedroom until the early hours of the morning, dread twisting her stomach into tight knots at the very thought of this conversation. in two weeks time, she'll be 40,000 feet in the sky — and 4,000 miles away from him. 'it won't work' has become her mantra at this point — a groove of an old record rehashing the cold narrative in the depths of her subconscious. she pulls her knees to her chest, eyes brimming with wet despondency. it's those three, familiar words that push her over the edge, a “ charles, ” spilling from trembling lips as she strives to blink away tears. she desperately wants to reciprocate; an i love you has forced its way onto the tip of her tongue, begging to fill the surrounding air. but she swallows it.
she used to swear that their best dialogue was between shared glances, but right now, james is incapable of meeting his gaze. “ — i'm not giving up. ” it would almost sound defensive if her voice wasn't so strained, as though she'd been hit in the gut and was still recovering. “ i want you to be HAPPY. ” nimble hands fidget in her lap, but they itch for him — yearn to caress his coarse jawline and comb through curly locks. “ i can't make you happy if i'm halfway across the world. ”
