@froideur said : 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒’𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢. 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶.
𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬. 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐦𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 ——– 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧’𝐭. for she knows all too well that the smallest misstep will dismantle whatever tentative thing their relationship has unwittingly become. a silence builds in the wake of his confessional words ——– unnatural for her, unnatural for them. a silence not for a lack of knowing what to say, but for the fear that if she does speak the words desperate to leap from her tongue, they can never be unsaid. heavy breath parts pink lips ; between them, only the expanse of her small kitchen, though the distance feels to span lightyears. ❝ ... i’m an expert at feelin’ alive. ❞ a slither of truth wrapped up in the trimmings of a grand lie. she’s an expert at the illusion of feeling alive. an expert in the best imitations of the sensation. ❝ ... i can try help you feel alive again. if you want. ❞ the words finally spoken, unable to be revoked ——– and she’s unsure herself what it even is she’s offering him. herself, if he wants it. everything and nothing all at once. pink lips pinch to one side in the wake of her words, and she turns her back to him, pouring a sizable glass of white wine. an attempt to play down the intensity of her words, to shroud them in nonchalance. ❝ ... or, we can drink until you feel better again. your choice. ❞