“…So, are we pretending that didn’t happen?”
4 blair
SUBJECT: about last night meme NOTIFY: @tradw1fe CONCERNING: charlie hawthorne
there's almost a NERVOUS ENERGY that light blair up.
it can't be denied, and it certainly can't be stopped. blair up before the dawn, already on her feet. she's got her face washed, and she's looming about the kitchen, sneaking food to binge on as her brain started racing, signalling disaster. she has to keep busy, because if she even pauses for ONE SECOND, she'll be forced to confront the fact that...
she woke up with charlie in her bed. naked. and that blair HAD BEEN too.
it's more then the mess of screwing up a friendship. blair's always wondered, if, this was what she wanted. if that's why things always felt so dull, so boring, so ill lit when held with nate archibald, and having to realize what an absolute MORON he was, and how utterly gross she found that. but with charlie? okay, she was like, kind of dumb too, like in the way where she was always wanting to put herself out willingly. the same way blair might with too much to drink, too much to do, she was numbing the edge of her pain on the zeitgeist of the modern era. embracing, nothingness! and...
she's also so sweet. so kind, so damaged, in a way that blair could understand. none of this made it make her feel any more clear about the whole FUCKING HER FRIEND part, or what she was like, feeling, or... god. blair's whole brain felt scrambled in a way that felt at utter contrast to the calm clarity in which she liked to face most things, glaring at the coffee mug in front of her when a voice startled her.
" ... so, are we pretending that didn't happen? "
there she stands. charlie, dressed in one of her nightclothes from the closet. that look on her face, the one that she wore when she's got something hurting on the inside. it makes her breath catch, her heart hurt. no. no, oh... she's done something really awful, hasn't she? "i'm not PRETENDING-" the words almost burst from her, catching herself, looking down. she's thinking about the way she kissed her last night, the way she'd gasp, fingers in her hair when her fingers would angle just right. "... i asked dorota to go get you your favourite flowers. she'll be back soon. do you know what you want to eat?" she's just, grasping. looking at her without knowing how to swallow her hopes and expectations, scrambled, as to how she even accepted her own.
