#*eden.

[alulars]

MR. JOHNSON & HARA ORA. 🎶 @alulars + @petitsdieu

The stream slips a ballerina's glide.

[alulars]

MOODBOARD: johnson & hara.

@alulars + @petitsdieu

[rufussaville]

about eden. —

It's Sunday, half past four and his room hums with the silence of old houses. Soundlessly, her message pops up on his phone:

[ Eden B ] : this fucking shit

No further explanation, maybe none needed. Not until an hour later when she rings their door and marches in without looking at or greeting their staff. (There is a twist, somewhere, when she hears her name spoken this kindly and doesn't return in kind, but she won't dwell on it.) Her long blonde ponytail, still wet from the shower she's taken earlier, swings angrily behind her back, stains the white blouse she's wearing. He can already hear the sound of her plimsoles against the marble steps as she rushes upstairs.

“You know fucking what—” she paces the room, gestures wildly like a referee pointing at nothing in particular. “This is fucking bullshit. I trained everyday——for weeks. Every day.”

And she still lost. And not even by a narrow margin.

With a sudden shrieking of wood against wood, she sits down onto the chair between door and drawer, and keeps talking until she can't anymore. Her eyes, unblinking, stare out, or maybe just at, the large window on the opposite side of the room; her veiny arms, half exposed by the pushed back sleeves, rest on her sharp knees. Slowly, a wispy strand of clouds passes by like an idle flock of sheep. Then she sucks in a harsh, choppy breath and he gets up from his desk, closes the distance between them until he's down on eye-level with her. His hands haven't reached her arms yet when she slings them around him and presses her face against his shirt for a moment. Then they already get up again.

“Sorry.”

“No need to be.”

She laughs, bitterly, and wipes her under-eye with her right pointer.