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“walking down your authentic path can be one of the loneliest roads to travel on because the longer you’re on it, the more you realize that only a select few will be compatible with who you are with no mask on.”
— billy chapata
I think of you, I think of you, I think of you.
cool kitty kiwi compilation 🥝
🧷- for savety
cats are healer, want more?
more cats or more me and my thoughts?
kitty 🥝
cringe me 💁♀️
The Garden Doesn’t Know She’s Gone Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom Fanfic by MythboundCal
Zelda’s garden doesn’t know she’s gone.
It still blooms like she’ll be back any second—like the sunflowers haven’t noticed she stopped humming to them, like the lavender didn’t watch her vanish into light.
Link stands at the gate. The wood is soft with age, half-swallowed by ivy. The watering can rests exactly where she left it in Hateno. Rusting. Waiting.
He doesn’t touch it.
Not out of neglect.
Just… fear.
That if he waters the garden, it might forget her—that its roots will stop searching for her footsteps, its blossoms will stop blooming in her colors.
So he lets it grow wild.
The basil climbs the wrong wall. The squash vines curl over the porch. The chimes still sing when the wind hits just right, a song no one ever wrote down.
And her gloves still hang on a bent nail by the shed. One turned inside out. He doesn’t fix it.
Somewhere beneath the soil are seeds she never named. He won’t dig for them. If they bloom, they bloom. If they don’t… he’ll wait with them.
Today, he sits. The Master Sword leans nearby, but he doesn’t reach for it.
The porch creaks under his weight. He watches the marigolds twitch in the breeze, reaching for hands that never come.
The villagers don’t ask anymore. He’s glad.
Because how do you explain a wound that grows flowers?
Even now, he hears her voice on the air—light, scolding, fond. “Don’t overwater the rosemary, Link. It hates being fussed over.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just lets the wind rustle the leaves. Lets the garden carry the silence.
And when a white lily opens—out of season, out of place—he doesn’t wonder how.
The garden remembers.
So he doesn’t have to.
If you were a book,
I would consume you.
I would trace your spine before I ever dared to open you.
I’d press my lips to your pages,
tasting the ink of your thoughts.
I would flip through your chapters with reverence,
leaving my mark on every line,
whispering secrets into the margins of your skin.
I want to read you until your edges fray,
until your spine bends under the weight of my devotion.
And in the quiet dawn,
when the final page is turned and the silence settles,
I will not close you.
I will gently gather your scattered pages,
pull you against my chest,
and begin again.
