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seen from Türkiye
seen from Türkiye
seen from China
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seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
seen from Russia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Syria
seen from China

seen from United States

seen from Russia
seen from China

seen from Malaysia
joyce byers moodboad
this scene… the guilt washing over her in violent waves - the type that makes your throat close and your chest feel so hollow you let out a breath. the look on her face, looking from jonathan to lonnie then to the floor. joyce is a little more vulnerable and exhausted because of the alcohol and it makes her look even more ashamed and devastated.
she knows she fucked up but the weight of the reality is finally catching up with her and she’s admitting defeat. when jonathan and lonnie go into the other room, does she clean up the glasses and pour the liquor down the drain or curl up further in the blanket, hoping the world opens up and swallows her whole like it seems it’s done to will (but he’s not gone, he’s here… she knows it)? or would she flex her hand along the splinters in the drywall and scrap at little bits of peeling wallpaper with her nail lost in her thoughts so badly it makes her jump when lonnie comes stomping back into the living room muttering about ‘jonathan got his mouth for me, that’s for sure’ and ‘we need to have a better handle on him’ and joyce scoffs and goes ‘leave him alone, it’s been hard’ but it’s all she thinks about when she’s laying in bed later that night and lonnie is snoring next to her while she itches to get back into the living room, back to the lights?
joyce is just like. clenches fist. cigarette smoke in early mornings and a forgotten spoon that’s left a coffee spot on the counter and the comfort of a favorite sweater and the warmth of a hot shower after a long day and the sting of a skinned knee and a blood soaked bandage and the tacky feeling of a chapstick kiss mark on skin and the low rumble of the tv in the living room at night and the light coming from the oven clock in the dark and hunched shoulders and wide eyed stubbornness and the nip of cold air and reserved hands moving in conversation and books with dog earred pages and the throbbing of skin ripped on a sharp edge and the smell of dinner after waking from a nap and wearing loved clothes and socks on hardwood floors and wiping tears from red eyes and