Can I just prompt you a scene from “organized knowledge”? I need it with burning passion.
angst? did i hear someone say…angst?? (1609 words)
She's been looking at Walt's message for—a while, now. She hasn't really been keeping track of the time, seeing as it took a good twenty minutes or so to feel anything past blind, incoherent anger when she saw the notification. But she knows, in the abstract, she still hasn't really absorbed it.
dear barbara. i know it's been a while. and—frankly, i'm not even sure if you'll read this message—
It's a long text, long enough she has to scroll a little to see it goes on for a couple of messages. Which, honestly—how dare he. She still hasn't read the whole thing; she keeps tripping up over the first couple words. I know it's been a while—like he didn't leave her heartbroken and aching and without any fucking idea what had happened.
It's not like she hadn't thought about what this would be like. It's just—she'd mainly thought of getting texted by her ex in the same vein she'd thought of, say, a zombie apocalypse: an unlikely possibility, unpleasant to think on, and completely disastrous.
She takes a sip of her beer and stretches out over the rest of her couch. She knows responding would be a stupid decision. She knows. She's been down this road twice now; she knows there's no good outcome to it, especially when said ex ghosted you, especially when you'd've given anything, once, to finally know what happened, especially when you've never actually been able to tell anyone how said ghosting left you a mess for months.
But she also knows, after earlier, that Pseudolus is never going to be interested. She's pretty sure, at this point, even if it still hurts miserably to think it. The look on his face earlier that afternoon—sitting too close for just friends, too far for his expression not to turn soft and awful and completely transparent—it'd said everything he hadn't needed to.
So she thinks: well.
Maybe tonight is a night for stupid fucking decisions.
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