"Shape"
The desert night folds around her like a dusty blanket, both cloying and comforting.
The air is heavy—charged with threats and promises.
It smells of gasoline, burning metal, and the ghost of something sweet;
a memory left out in the sun too long, cracked and curling at the edges.
She glances up at the stars as she approaches, hesitant,
afraid they might vanish if she watches too closely,
mirroring the bright future she was once promised,
when life still glittered with possibility.
One scuffed combat boot is partially unlaced,
dragging every few steps,
leaving an uneven trail in her wake.
Her leather jacket hangs open, worn soft from age,
but she carries it like armor.
The static in her ears is nearly as loud as her spinning thoughts—
a recursive machine that never rests.
She stops short of him,
caught between the anxiety driving her forward
and the respect for his solitude holding her back.
Her breath stills when he turns his head, just slightly,
to glance at her from the corner of sharp hazel eyes
that see everything in an instant—
especially the parts she tries hardest to hide.
He’s reclining on the hood of the car
with a casual grace that makes it look more like a throne
than a relic of rust and rebellion.
She inhales raggedly,
and the words tumble forth,
as if the silence is summoning them.
“I’m scared it’ll never get better,”
she admits,
the kind of truth the sand swallows and buries.
He angles his body toward her, posture relaxed,
one knee bent against the fender.
He lets the weight of her confession settle on his shoulders
and bears it effortlessly.
“It gets different,” he corrects, voice low,
a rare softness she clings to,
a lifeline in the dark.
There’s a pause so magnetic it draws her closer.
Then,
“You’ve gotta find a way to live with the new shape.”
The honesty of it would sting,
coming from anyone else.
But from him? It’s a badge of honor
she didn't know she'd earned.
His gaze holds her,
green irises fractured with gold—
a gravity she can't escape and doesn't try to.
“We all have ghosts, sugar,” he says at last,
tossing her a flask that smells like pure motor oil.
“But you decide how long they can haunt you.”
—
byte_sh4p3// found in the ashcode // terminate: haunt