i'm just too soft for all of it

rosie | she/her

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea couldn’t help but peer in when the door to his office swings open.

It wasn’t what she was expecting. The journalist in her files each item away in the back of her mind - the plant that’s surprisingly not dead, the dark green sofa that surprisingly reminded her of the one in her suite. 

Her attention snaps back when he offers her the first book in the reading list. Her face deadpans at his comment, unimpressed, but she reaches out to take it nevertheless.

“You don’t even look old enough to be a professor, to be honest. You look what, three, four years older than I am?” Dora walks over to the bookshelf, suppressing the urge to run her hands across the spines. 

“Did you write all these?” Dorothea points to a shelf that is filled with academic history journals and textbooks with his name dancing across the covers and spines. “More material to torture unsuspecting students with, no doubt?”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dora didn’t look the type?

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Dorothea was fuming. She stayed in place for a moment, watching Dr. Hawkins as he walked out of the room, and for a split second considers walking away from him forever, dropping his class, and never seeing him again.

But she knows she can’t afford to do that, and so she grabs her bag and slings it over her shoulder, following him out of the room and down the hallway. 

“I’m a journalism major.” She says proudly once she’s caught up to his stride, still seething from their previous interaction. If her future didn’t depend on this class she would give this man a piece of her mind. “I’m usually on the other side of the building, which is why you probably haven’t seen me before, and I definitely haven’t seen you.”

She didn’t know why she was saying this. She knows she should be thanking him profusely for helping her out with her grade, but there was something about how cocky he was that brought out her thorns.

“Besides, I wouldn’t say you look like the type either, Dr. Hawkins. Maybe we’ll both surprise each other.” 

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Doctor sounds snobbish, doesn’t it?

Really? Was this guy serious?

Dorothea tries to blink back the tears that threaten to form as he says her worst fears out loud. Her mind spirals. Her scholarship. Her grade average. Her career. Her reputation. Her housing. Everything in her life right now is depending on her grade in this stupid class that she despises.

Dora looks into Dr. Hawkins’ eyes for a moment, and whatever she sees in them makes her tell him the truth, all at once.

“Dr. Hawkins, I am not a history person. I’m just not. And I’m stuck here in your class, no offense, because my academic counsellor from last semester went on leave and there was no one to replace her until a few weeks ago, when I was informed that I needed an elective credit to stay on track academically. And your class was the only one that had a spot this late, which also just so happens to be the only class that has an extensive summer reading list, thank you very much for that, as if we don't read enough during the school year, which, mind you, could use something other than one billion old crusty white men who loved to hear the sound of their own voice. Metaphorically, of course.” 

Her voice trembles. “Dr. Hawkins, I’m not a history person. I read this Star Wars book once, some spin-off of Clone Wars, and it said that there are people who look into the past, people who reflect at the present, and people who look into the future. I’m a present person. I don’t care about the thoughts of some straight white man from two hundred years ago who likely abused his wife. I care about truth, and justice, and change right now. And I can’t do that, I can’t write the truth and change the world one day if I don’t pass this stupid class. No offense.”

Dora lifts her hands to rub at her eyes, trying to be subtle about the tears that were starting to form, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

“That is what is stopping me from giving this class my fullest potential.”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

closed starter for @incalescentia

Dorothea Taylor was usually a perfect student.

That is, until two weeks ago when she sat in the academic counselor’s office and learned that she needed to pick an elective. She had allowed it to slip through the cracks, which meant that she had to sign up for the first class that would accept her with late notice.

The Age of The Renaissance and Reformation.

Blegh. Even the name made her cringe as she made her way across the literature building which housed all the written arts classes. She longed to be in one of the classrooms she was walking by, talking about journalistic integrity and writing about truth. Instead, she was rushing to her boring history lesson that she hadn’t done any of the summer reading for, because she had only been assigned to the class for a week.

Dora forced herself to not look at the front of the class as the door opened with a soft groan. She walked straight to the back, ignoring the slight pause in the professor’s lecture as she sank into her seat in the back row next to her history-geek friends.

“You’re late.” One of them whispers.

“I know.” She grumbles.

“You missed it. He reaches up to turn on the projector earlier and you could see his arm muscles under his shirt.” 

Dorothea rolls her eyes before finally glancing up at Dr. Conrad Hawkins, "NYU’s hottest professor". Or at least that’s what the history girls say. Dora opens her computer and pulls up the school portal, eyes scanning for her grade that she should have received near the start of this class.

D+.

Dora slams her computer shut with slightly too much gusto, causing the students around her to glance back at her, Dr. Hawkins pausing to look at her.

Someone set me on fire right now.

“I’m sorry.” She says, and something like amusement flickers across Dr. Hawkins’ features before he continues to speak, pacing at the front of the class. Asshole.

Dora tries her best to listen to the lecture, and even her friends eventually go back to taking notes, obviously engaged with the material. She settles for opening her computer and scrolling through the website of the New Yorker, skimming through the Arts & Culture section that had been updated this weekend.

“Miss Taylor, can I have a word before you go?” Dr. Hawkins’ voice pulls her away from her reading, and that’s when she notices that class has been dismissed. Her friends give her knowing glances as they walk down the lecture hall and out of the room, leaving her to face the best. Traitors.

She scoops up her things and walks up to the front of the room, exhaling a sigh. 

“Hi, Dr. Hawkins. You wanted to talk to me?”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea hums happily when Conrad kisses her, allowing herself to melt into him completely.

This is Dora’s perfect place in the world. She’s quite literally swimming in him, the warmth of his coat enveloping her body completely, while his body shields her front. His lips are so soft and he kisses her with such tenderness, just like he used to. Like she’s his most precious thing. I traveled every inch of the world and never found anything quite like you, she thinks to herself. Never found anything as good and right and real. She’s hoping that her kiss will convey this to him, that he understands now that she never ever stopped being his, even when he didn’t know it.

Dora’s body starts to shift before her mind registers the movement, crawling into Connie’s lap so she can be closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly. Her body trembles slightly from the overwhelming feelings, the pounding of her heart, she butterflies frantic in her stomach, the way her fingers shake nervously as she plays with his hair. In a way it’s like the two of them being teenagers all over again, re-learning one another, Dora baring her soul to him, asking him to see her, asking him to love her back.

And he does, she tells herself. He wouldn’t be kissing her like this if he didn’t.

The door to the roof opens, and Dora hears someone clear their throat as it shuts behind them.

Dora bashfully breaks their kiss, biting her lower lip as the heat rushes to her face. She instinctively buries her face in Connie’s shoulder, giving him a tender squeeze as she tries to catch her breath, hiding from their audience.

“Connie, take her home, please.” Connie’s mom’s voice breaks the quiet that had surrounded them, amused and tender.

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

"You called me 'love'." Dora giggles again, humming happily as she curls her fingers around Conrad's coat and tugs it tighter around her. "Mm, smells like you." She murmurs, inhaling deeply. Her heart was singing loudly and happily now that her Connie was near. Dora tucked the ring in her pocket and scooted closer so that their knees were touching.

“I was looking at the stars. I’m trying to find the Dora.” She glances up again for a moment before tilting her head down again, not wanting to strain her neck. Dora recalls doing this exact same thing while on her travels, looking up at the sky on her saddest and happiest nights, trying to find the brightest star in the sky, wondering if Connie was doing the same somewhere. Even in her drunken state, something kept her from revealing this intimate truth to him.

“Connie, you’re so handsome.” She continues rambling. Dora’s smile widens as she lifts her hands to cup Conrad’s face, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks, feeling brave. It was all she wanted to do since seeing him again on that horrible double date - she wanted to touch him all over, relearn every inch, discover everything that was new. 

“You look different, you know? Your hair is longer.” She runs the tips of her fingers through his hair softly, tucking a stray lock behind his ear. “I love your eyes. I’ve always loved them so much. Your eyes are…deeper now. I always feel like you can tell exactly what I’m thinking. It’s really scary.” The tips of her fingers explore the curves of his face, and she dares herself to brush her thumb across his lower lip, softly, relishing the way that he exhales in response. She touches the the pad of her thumb to the new scar on his chin. 

“You look…really good.” She exhales, voice rough, features softening. Dora looks up into Connie’s eyes again, leaning forward to touch her nose to his, a nervous laugh dancing out of her as she places her palms against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Connie, do you still want to kiss me?”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea’s heart sank when Conrad dropped her hand. 

Her cheeks reddened slightly once more, not from butterflies this time. She shoved her hands back into her pant pockets, embarrassed that she’d worn her ring here, in front of so many people. 

She turns and forces a smile at Josephine and Ava walking in their direction.

“Hi Jo. Hi Ava, it’s nice to see you.” Dora says politely, using the opportunity to lean in and give Conrad’s mom a kiss on the cheek, putting distance between them both. 

“Hi Dora.” Ava replies while taking Conrad’s hand into her own. The same Dora had just been holding. She forces herself to look away, look towards the art piece they had been observing, the one that Conrad’s mom had made just for them, when she overhears a not-so-quiet whisper from Ava. “Why is she here?”

Anger boils over in Dora’s chest. This was Dora’s family. Her life. She belonged here. 

“Oh, Jo and I are best friends.” Dora says, plastering a sickly sweet smile on her face as she loops her arm through Connie’s mom’s own. “From when Conrad and I were married, remember?” 

Ava opens her mouth to say something, but Dora cuts her off.

“Jo, will you come with me? I wanted to ask you about some of your paintings.”

“Let’s get to it, then.” Josephine gives her an amused smile as the two of them walk away. Dora forces herself not to look back.

***

Dorothea is drunk.

She’s never been one to drink too much at these functions - usually one or two glasses of red, but they had real Champagne, and she was by herself. She couldn’t have asked Josephine to babysit her the whole night.

Plus, Connie was always with her in the before times to make sure she was feeling okay.

That’s how Dora finds herself on the roof, high heels beside her along with a mountain of expensive cheese piled on a plate and a bottle of Champagne that she stole from the serving staff. She’s pulled her curly hair up in a high bun, her makeup starting to fade.

Head fuzzy and warm, she lies down on the cold ground in the chilly air to hold her wedding ring up above her face. She giggled every so often, squinting one eye while using the gold band as a makeshift telescope.

“Dora?” She hears a familiar voice call out, a door closing.

“Connie!” She squeals, turning to look at him through her ‘telescope’. He looks so good in his turtleneck and matching suit, and the thought causes her to giggle again as butterflies dance around in her stomach. “Connie, will you come sit with me? Please?”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Every alarm bell in Addie’s body was ringing.

The second the lights went back up, Adeline recognized who he was. Auden St. James, he confirmed. Although something inside of her told her that it wasn’t in her best interest to admit that she’s seen all his films before.

Addie lifted her glass in the air, tapping it to his. “To social gain.” 

Addie takes a sip of her wine as she maintains eye contact with Auden, brown and green colliding. The rest of their table had gone from gaping at them slightly to returning to their own dates and conversations.

The second her eyes met Auden’s, though, she knew she was in trouble. She knew, in that moment, that he was the type of guy who could break her heart.

“I’m Adeline. Addie to my friends, but we’re not really friends, are we?” She doesn’t let herself think too much before lacing her fingers with his on the table, instinctively giving his hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Let me fill you in on what you’ve missed since you decided to show up late for our date.” She pouts playfully, giving him a quick wink before turning to face the rest of the room. 

Addie’s been a wallflower all her life. It’s what makes her such a good actor - the way she can hide among the crowd and observe life move around her. It’s the moment in which she feels most powerful.

That’s how she knows who showed up to the show already wasted, the couple that is clearly broken up yet still together to save face with the media, the actors who gracefully excused themselves from their tables when they lost their respective awards, most likely to go cry in their limousines. Like she would most likely be later if she was being honest.

All of this information she relays to Auden in delighted whispers as the show goes on around them, between sips of wine and the occasional hum of appreciation from him.

“And that’s the report.” Addie smiles at him before glancing down at her phone, which has stopped vibrating. She unlocks her home screen to look at the latest text from her agent.

Good girl.

Adeline sighs, finally tucking her phone into her clutch.

“So, Auden, my category’s coming up. What truly is the socially acceptable thing to do in case of a loss?” Addie plays with the end of a lock of hair, always fiddling, always needing her hands to be busy. Her tone is light, but her question is genuine. “A gracious clap? A single tear? Standing ovation?” 

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea was pouring herself into her work.

It was all she could do to get through the days. To try to forget the fact that the love of her life was currently seeing someone else, she gave herself entirely to her other great love - her words.

That is until Conrad would send her a text in the evenings, talking about whatever silly thing happened in class today or sending videos of Charles barking a squirrel up a tree. The two of them would talk all night, a smile plastered to her lips as he made her laugh, asked her questions, told her stories. 

One night, she finally accepted one of the endless calls she’d been receiving from James.

Where the fuck have you been? He asked.

I think we should break up. She replied.

She was surprised by how easy it was. 

And so the days went by, and so she sat at her desk in the mid-tier hotel room that work was still paying for and every-so-often asking how the apartment hunt was going. Wrong. Every place is wrong.

And so she found herself staring at Conrad from across the room at the art gallery that his mom ensured he wouldn’t be at. Dora can’t help but smile a bit. That woman always has her own agenda.

The look on his face as he turns to her takes her breath away. The utter relief that she sees in his features, the immediate smile that she brings to his face. She tries not to think too hard about the fact the last time they saw each other their lips had been an inch apart. 

Dora freezes momentarily when Conrad stretches his hand out to her. She knows what he’s doing. She knows that he needs this. And she does too.

But there’s no way to take his hand without him noticing the thin gold band on her ring finger, currently hiding from view as her hands curl into fists in the pockets of her flowy pants.

I would not wish any other companion in the world but you.

Dora hadn’t meant to start wearing it again. She slipped it on the night of their almost-kiss after staring at it for hours. She wanted to feel it again, the smooth metal on her skin a reminder of the promise that he had once given her. Something of Connie's that was only hers.

Fuck it, she thinks to herself as she closes the distance placing her hand in his, threading their fingers together like they’d always done. Dorothea forced herself to face the painting in front of them, begging her hands not to shake, not to betray the effect that he had on her now, so many years later. Trying to ignore the fact that her wedding ring adorned her hand once more.

“You know your mom was on the phone with me when she painted this one?” Dora starts to ramble nervously, his hand in hers sending electric currents up her arm and down her back. “She said that she wanted to see what it was like to paint a landscape with only sound as a reference. So she called me while I was in Venice, every day for like, a week straight, and asked me to put her on speakerphone so she could hear everything. She’d occasionally ask me what I was looking at, what was going on, but mostly we just sat together, her painting and me writing on my balcony. It was my favorite week there.” 

Somewhere along the way, as her words tangled together, Dora leaned in closer.

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea exhales quickly, every molecule of air leaving her body she second that Conrad touches her face. 

She places her hand over his chest, right where his heart is. Feels his heartbeat under her palm, wonders if his is pounding as hard as hers. How many times has she dreamt about this moment the past five years? How many nights has she looked up at the stars from a foreign balcony and tried to recall exactly how it felt for him to caress her skin, touch her cheek, look at her like that. Like she’s it for him. Like she’s the center of his world, the only thing that matters.

Dora gives into the feeling, lets the magnetic field between them guide her, brushing the tip of her nose against his as she parts her lips. Ever so slightly curls her hand closed, the fabric of his shirt tickling her fingertips, allowing the familiar music to serenade them like a lullaby.

She lowers her gaze from his for a brief second to try to get her heart under control.

A brief second is all it takes.

“Oh my god.” She whispers, frozen. Her brows furrow slightly as she stares at the pair of heels next to the coffee table. How could she have missed them before? They were definitely not hers. She would never wear something so strappy and unsupportive. A comfortable high heel is a woman’s greatest weapon, her mother used to say. Don’t let yourself get caught unprepared. “Oh my god.”

Ava. How many times has Conrad carried her shoes for her? How many times has she been here, sat in her spot on the couch, listened to Connie’s vinyl collection? Shared a kiss in this exact spot?

“I have to go.” Dora swallows roughly in an attempt to fight back her tears, pulling away from Conrad and standing up. She sees Charles perk his head up from the corner of the room as she grabs her coat off the stool and shrugs it on, picking her own heels up off of the ground. 

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Connie rasps from where he’s still sitting on the couch, stunned, not so much angry as he is confused. Dora spins around to catch the exact moment he spots Ava’s shoes, is looking straight at him as he spins his head back around to look back at her, regret in his eyes. Regret for who?

Dora spins around again, anger coursing through her, at Conrad, at herself, at the last five years that they spent apart.

Her hand lands on the doorknob right as she feels herself being tugged, Conrad’s hand tightening around her in an iron grip.

She turns to look at him again, about to ask him to let go, but the look in his eyes stops her. Please don’t leave me. And she knows that he doesn’t just mean right here, in this moment, right this second. Dorothea is reminded of the last time they were both standing by this door, looking at each other speechlessly.

Dora sniffles softly as she reaches for his phone, pulling it out of his pocket. She forces herself to ignore the fifteen missed calls from Ava, is surprised to find that his passcode is still the same. Their anniversary. 

It takes her a few moments to punch in her new number, handing the phone back to him. “You have a girlfriend, Conrad.” 

Dora turns again, opening the door this time, pausing.

“You were stupid for not chasing me halfway across the world.” Dora says, unable to look at him, the tears dangerously close to making an appearance. She knows it isn’t fair. She’s the one who left. And she has a boyfriend as well.

But nevertheless, she shuts the door behind her, a quiet sob erupting from her chest as she brings her free hand up to cover her mouth. She bites back her tears again as she makes her way down seven flights of stairs, eyes red and watery.

She was stupid to hope he would have waited. And she was stupid to think it could all be the same.

[tiny-as-a-firely]

closed starter for @incalescentia.

Adeline was decidedly ignoring her phone. 

It was buzzing every two seconds. Not from social media, which she hasn’t had on her work phone in ages. No, that phone stays tucked away in her assistant’s bag, advice from her agent - too tempting to scroll for days on end when everyone in the world had something to post about you.

It seemed like Addie would never get used to the fame. She was far from an A-list celebrity, having worked her way through Broadway (and off-Broadway) plays for the last three three years after graduating from her prestigious performing arts high school. Little did she know, everyone comes from somewhere prestigious nowadays. It didn’t make her special.

And still, here she was, at the Oscars. With a Best Supporting Actress nomination. And everyone wanted a piece of her.

Well, everyone except for her asshole ex-boyfriend who stood her up. It’s not his fault - she knows that fame is an adjustment, and the second his face got plastered all over the internet, he kind of couldn’t deal.

She just wished he’d told her he was dipping more than thirty minutes before they were supposed to be on the red carpet.

Her phone buzzes again and she groans quietly, trying not to draw attention to herself among the very famous people surrounding her. She flips her phone to glare at it.

You need to find a date, NOW.

Addie purses her lips and then flashes a smile to someone waving at her from across the room. Fuck. Where is she possibly going to find somebody?

“Sorry I’m late.” A voice interrupts her thoughts, one that is most definitely not sorry by the tone of it.

Addie turns to face the newcomer to her table and freezes. The lights have lowered slightly for the announcement of an award she's not particularly paying attention to, making it hard to see him. Her brain does some calculations. Daydream-y hair. Disheveled suit, in a way that makes him look fashionable yet uncaring. Lop-sided “I don’t give a fuck” smile. Hand tattoos. No model on his arm. No ring. Bingo. 

She clears her throat and takes a sip of her wine before tucking her hair behind her shoulder, shifting to the edge of her chair to be closer to the mysteriously late stranger. 

Addie plasters the most charming smile on her lips that she can muster, placing a hand on his shoulder as she leans her bright red lips in closer, murmuring into his ear.

“I know you just got here, and I know this is going to make me sound crazy, but I will give you literally anything if you pretend that you came to be with me tonight.”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

I’m going to grab that wine and you can keep telling me how stupid I was for not chasing you halfway around the world.

Dorothea’s head whips around as she gapes at Conrad, eyes wide, so many questions on her lips. But  he’s already gone.

She purses her lips, trying her best to bury the memories that come forward of the last night the two of them were in this house, a younger version of herself wanting nothing more than for Conrad to fight for her, to say that he would follow her anywhere. To chase her halfway across the world, even if it meant to never return.

Instead, she lets herself explore. Dora walks along the wall closest to the entrance first, eyes scanning the frames on the wall. She remembered a frantic phone call to her mom that one morning five years ago, begging her and her dad to come and help her pack as many of her things as possible. This was the aftermath - bits and pieces of empty space along the walls, on the shelves.

But there are also new things. New pieces of art that she recognizes as Conrad’s mom’s. New books lining the shelves. New academic journals.

And most glaringly, framed articles, written by her. 

A smile danced across her lips as she explored the room, identifying which one of her pieces Connie chose to frame. A lot of them were her favorites, but some of them were throwaways that she assumed no one would read. Her chest tightens.

Dora instinctively walked over to the blanket draped along the back of the couch, folding it neatly before setting it back down on the couch cushion. 

A flash of pale red catches the corner of her eye. Dorothea walks over to the window and looks down, a large, red splotch on the hardwood glaring back at her. Her breath catches as she remembers, thinking to the small scar she has on the bottom of her foot from when she stepped in glass the morning after. A pang of guilt hits her at the realization that Connie wasn’t ever able to get this stain out. How many other stains had she left on his life? How many other ways had he had to scrub her clean?

Dora feels something wet on her hand.

“Hello, Mr. Dickens.” She kneels down to face the gentle dog who is wagging his tale a mile a minute. Dora smiles back at him, putting her cold fingers in the long hair along the back of his ears, giving him a scratch, causing him to lick her face from chin to temple. Dora laughs.

“He likes you.” Conrad’s voice startles her, causing her to jump a little as she looks up.

“And why wouldn’t he?” She quips, giving him one last good scratch behind the ear before walking back over to the couch and sitting down in her usual place. Dora’s heart thumps out of her chest as she watches Connie open the bottle of her favorite red wine and pour her a glass, which she accepts, tucking her legs under her. Is he as nervous as I am? She wonders.

“You changed the place.” Dora murmurs before taking a sip, allowing the familiar warmth to settle into her. “I like it. It feels like you. I’m sorry I didn’t let you decorate more back then.” She lifts her glass again to point at a stack of papers and journals neatly arranged on the shelf. “Did you write all of those? Tell me about Dr. Conrad Hawkins.”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea looks up at the familiar window, terrified of what’s inside. 

The first thing she thinks is how uncharacteristic it is of him to have left the light on. Ever since he became a teacher he would go on about their responsibility to save electricity, even going so far as putting together lesson plans that Dora would have read at their kitchen table with a glass of red wine.

It felt funny to come face to face with these little changes, these tiny pieces of him that made her feel like the ground was shifting under her feet, the map of her world altered forever.

Even still, she felt the draw to go upstairs. To go back home.

“I do.” Dora says, turning to flash him a shy smile.

Dorothea waited for him to open the door, stepping into the familiar building. The orange light tickled her, causing her to purse her lips to hide her smile as she looked around, kicking her heels off like she’d done so many times before, bending to pick them up.

It takes Conrad about a half a second to take her heels from her.

Dora pauses as she stares at him, lips parted. A rush of emotions course through her. No one in the past five years has done this for her. It was so quintessentially Conrad, a small way she’s learned that he shows his affection for her, and it was something that had always brought a pang to her heart when she walked down cobblestone streets with her heels in tow.

“C’mere.” Conrad says, having stopped at the second step to look back at her. Dora takes a breath and walks towards him, following as they continue up all seven flights of stairs at a steady pace, pleased to see all of the dents and creases are still in the places she left them.

They’re almost at the top of the stairs when Connie trips over the top step, like he’s done about a million times before. Dora immediately lurches forward to try to catch him, causing her to tumble forward as well.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Conrad sputters.

Dora starts to laugh.

Her soft giggles fill the stairwell as she twists to face him, face scrunched together from laughing, tears in her eyes.

“It’s been five years…and you haven’t learned…how to climb these stairs?” She sputters out between hysterical giggles, Connie’s laughter echoing hers. 

Once their laughter subsides she glances down to see where her hand lays on top of his.

Her face falls, a serene look washing over her as she fights the urge to squeeze his hand. She only brushes the pad of her thumb across his ring finger, where his wedding band still sits. The air between them sparks, and the world stills, and for one split second Dorothea can lie to herself and say that this is just another Friday date night, and Connie is bringing her back home, and they're going to sip on wine and read together and listen to whatever her husband's vinyl of choice is for that evening.

A door slams from the floor beneath them and she is jolted back into the present. She clears her throat and clambers to her feet, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she steps aside to let Conrad unlock the door.

Right as he’s about to turn the doorknob, the words spill out of her.

“I got your flowers.” Dora says, biting back tears. “All of them. I know they weren’t meant for me. But…but my mom sent them to me anyways. So I got them. All of them. Every week. Tulips. My favorite.”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea was at a crossroads.

She didn’t want to hurt Connie’s feelings. Fuck, they still hadn’t talked about what even happened that night, and even then they basically had only said two words to each other. Dora felt like they were walking on ice. One wrong word would pull him under, tear him away from her, just when she finally found him again.

But when she looked at him, fear and worry laced in her gaze, she saw nothing but deep, genuine curiosity and excitement. If she were selfish, she’d even admit that she saw even a little bit of love. Her heart sputtered out for a moment as she felt the overwhelming urge to lean into him, to touch his hands, to slip her arms around him and just...let him whisk her away. In the back of her mind, she knew that reality was waiting for them. But she felt it, the tug, that invisible string that's tied her to him all their lives, the one that had gone quiet years ago. It was the surprise of a lifetime for her to realize that it was still there, strong as ever, maybe had always been there, waiting for her to come back, waiting for the damage to be repaired.

It overwhelmed her tremendously, the way that he looked at her. His glances at her lips. The way their fingers brushed against each others when they sidestepped around someone on the sidewalk, zapping electricity up her arm. Surely it couldn’t be this easy, could it? To just fall into each other again?

Dorothea took a risk. She told him the truth.

“Connie, it was amazing. It was really lonely at times, and sometimes I was really sad, but it was also just…huge. It made my heart feel so huge. And it made me feel brave.” 

Dora and Conrad walk through the familiar streets, Dorothea prattling on about the different places she saw, the different pieces she wrote. She told him all her favorite memories, all of the little things she wanted to share with him every day, and whenever she looked over at him, scared that the other shoe would drop and he would leave, he was there. Looking at her like he used to, like she was the most important thing in the world.

Dora’s been talking for at least fifteen minutes straight when they arrive at Columbus Circle and she spots the ice cream stand.

“Do you want ice cream? I’m hungry.” She says, as if ice cream was a food group. But her eyes light up like she’s sixteen again as she walks towards the stand, ordering her usual - a large chocolate and vanilla swirl soft serve coated in sprinkles. This is a must.

She hands the woman a $10 bill and grabs her ice cream, turning to look at Conrad as she takes a huge bite right off of the top, spilling sprinkles down the front of her nice dress. She looks over at Conrad and notices him staring, unable to read the look in his eyes. 

“Don’t you want something?” She says once she’s swallowed her bite, laughing nervously. “Did I do something wrong?”

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Wait, you were married? To Conrad?

James’ voice barely registered as Dora’s eyes locked on Connie’s, trying to read his mind. What was he thinking? Was he happy to see her? Did he never want to speak to her again? Was he angry at her for not contacting him sooner?

There was a long pause in conversation as James and Ava waited for one of them to say something, but Dorothea’s attention was locked on Conrad, waiting for him to speak. She could sense that they were making a scene, could feel the heat of the lingering stares of everyone around them who were just trying to have a nice meal, but she truly, deeply could not bring herself to care in the slightest.

Because there was a challenge in her eyes. An unspoken dare as she waited for Conrad to speak, communicating with him silently.

Do it. Tell them. Claim me.

When the words finally slip from his lips, Dorothea forces herself to bite back the smile that threatens to form on her lips. Fuck, they should be embarrassed right now. They should be begging their partners to forgive them, reassuring them, saying anything to make them understand that everything between her and Conrad was history.

But it would be a lie.

Dorothea barely hears Ava and James speak, barely notices when they’ve left the room. All that exists for her is Conrad Hawkins, sitting in front of her after five long years. There is a shift in him - his hair is longer in a way that sits differently. He has a scar on his chin that she hasn’t ever seen before, and she has the sudden urge to reach out and touch it with her thumb, to acquaint herself with this new detail that’s unfamiliar to her. Her hand shifts ever so slightly before she remembers that she isn’t allowed to do that anymore.

Hawkins? Conrad asks, and Dora can’t help but release the smallest smile. Hawkins, the name she scribbled across her notebooks all year in the eleventh grade. Hawkins, the name she was given when she married the man she loves. Hawkins, the name of her chosen parents, the ones that love every inch of her every second of every day, unconditionally. Hawkins, the name she chose as her own, the name she’s proudly carried for the past twelve years of her life, the name she couldn’t bring herself to part with. Her. Name.

“Yes.” Dorothea says, irrevocably and immovable.

“And you’re back?” Conrad says, not missing a beat.

“Yes.” Dora repeats. 

There’s another pause, and she can see that the wheels in his head are turning. Dorothea braces herself for the unexpected - prepares herself for the anger, the sadness, the betrayal.

“Do you want to get out of here?” 

Dora exhales softly, the first full breath she’s taken in five years, the first one that’s really touched every part of her.

“Yes.”

Connie wastes no time flagging down the server, briefly explaining that there’s been a change of plans. Dorothea reaches for her bag that’s hanging off of her purse, knowing that on a high school teacher's salary, Connie probably can’t comfortably cover the cost of this fucking absurd bottle of wine James ordered.

To her surprise, he pulls out a credit card she’s never seen before, setting it down on the table, unworried. Dora mentally files that away for later, hoping that she’ll have the chance to rifle through every inch of new Connie, and despite herself, she feels…excited.

Within minutes the tab is paid and they stand, walking side by side as they exit the restaurant, their dates nowhere to be seen.

Just like that, Dorothea and Conrad Hawkins walk out into the streets of New York once more. 

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea would be lying if she said that it was easy.

The first year she spent abroad was rough. It was an effort to not reach out to Conrad every moment. Every time she turned the corner in Paris there was something new and exciting that she wanted to show him, something she wanted to scream about with her best friend. She had to get a new phone number when she finished making arrangements to permanently live abroad - a roaming plan wouldn’t work forever. But Dora had Conrad’s phone number etched into the shadows of her heart, having forced herself to memorize it one night in high school so she could call him from anywhere. 

She wasn’t expecting the degree of loneliness. Dorothea had her parents, who would call her once a week and catch up, and she had Connie’s mom, who would call once a day, but never provide any details about Conrad. She had Connie’s dad, who occasionally sent her bits and pieces of his drafts in the mail, who always had some piece of advice to provide about her articles, who always made her a better writer. A better person.

And she had her words. They have never failed her.

By year two, she started making friends. Other travel writers and backpackers who felt the same yearning she did to explore all the places of the world that felt bigger than herself. To soak in the steps at the base of Mount Vesuvius, or to laugh and cry at the karaoke bar at the small Roman cafe on Friday nights.

They were with her when she cried in front of the Notre Dame in Paris, on the day that it reopened. Her most popular piece to date, A History of Burning, was written that week as she sat among the pews and lit candles, under the rainbow-colored streaks of light that danced with the tinted windows. In it, she explored cycles of violence, the things that we burn for, the things we set fire to, the ways we rebuild.

By year three, she felt anew. Dora was louder, taking up space outside of the four sides of the paper. Her group of companions grew and shrunk as different people came and went and returned, sometimes she herself peeling away from them to go on a solo pilgrimage. She danced along the streets of Thailand, shrieked Happy New Year more than once from balcony buildings in Spain. 

But by year four, there were the occasional moments when she felt herself being pulled to a familiar place. The frayed bits of her heart, the ones that she kept boxed up and put away neatly in a corner, the wine-stained dress sitting at the bottom of her suitcase waiting to be dry-cleaned. She couldn’t escape the memories, was surprised to wake up one morning to a yearning to return home, was shocked to realize that she never stopped calling it home in the first place.

And then one day, she received a job offer in her inbox. 

That’s how she found herself back here, in the city she ran away from. 

The first day after she returned, she set out to explore. There were so many things that changed, but so many things still the same. Dorothea walked the entire day, finding new places in tucked away corners, scribbling in her notebook, her love renewing. The parts inside of her that she had set fire to were rebuilding.

That’s how she found herself standing on a familiar street, looking up a familiar window, wondering if there was still a splotchy stain of red wine on the hardwood floor.

That’s where she ran into James. 

Dorothea had met James during her second year of travel while he was on a business trip, and had clicked immediately. They had never taken their friendship any further because of the looming goodbye between them, and sure enough at the end of the two weeks, he had returned home and she was onto a different country.

But oddly enough, finding him in New York was…comfortable. And with him she could avoid the hurt, avoid the dread in her heart when she gave into thinking about the man she truly loved.

Conrad.

So when Dora spots him from the window to the fancy restaurant where she’s to meet James’ sister, she stops walking.

“What are you doing?” James laughs awkwardly.

“I need to go home. I’m-I’m not feeling well.”

“Don’t be silly, we’re here already. You were fine like two seconds ago, what’s the matter?” He doesn’t pause to listen to her answer, taking her hand and walking into the building.

Every step they took closer felt like someone was pouring fire down her throat.

Dora saw the moment when her husb- when Connie noticed it was her. The way his eyes flashed for a split second, and she swore that it was the same look he wore on a fateful night five years ago. 

Not quite having paid attention to introductions, Dora snaps her attention back to Ava, the person she’s here to meet. “Hi Ava. It’s nice to meet you.” Her chest clenched as shook Conrad’s hand, no words exchanged between them, wondering if he could feel the trembling of her hand. She forces herself to take a deep breath as she takes her seat directly across from him.

“James has been talking about you non-stop for the past few weeks. He says that you just moved to New York?” Ava says.

“Moved back.” Dora smiles at Ava politely, hoping that she can’t see the absolute terror in her face.

“Dora grew up here.” James chimed in from beside her where he’s already taking a look at the wine menu. “The great Dora Hawkins was offered a job at the New Yorker. Started last week, right babe?” 

“Yes.” Dora confirms, averting her gaze from Conrad, looking at anything but.

“Hawkins? Wait that’s so funny, Connie’s last name is Hawkins.” Ava places a hand on Conrad’s shoulder and squeezes. 

This causes Dora to glance over at Conrad, who is still staring at her. She can tell from here that his jaw is clenched, a flash of a memory dancing in her mind of the time he had to wear a mouth-guard for three weeks in high school from clenching his jaw so much.

“That is funny.” James half-heartedly replies before glancing up at Conrad from the drinks menu. “Conrad, you’ve been here before. What’s the best wine selection?”

Hawkins.

The word rang between the two of them like bells. 

Yes. She tries to whisper to him with her eyes.

When her gaze falls, she almost chokes on air.

A thin gold band catches her eye on his right hand. She would have noticed sooner when they shook hands if her fingers hadn’t been so numb with panic. Again, a flash of the two of them taunts her, Dorothea and Connie on their wedding day, the sight of his face crumpling with joy as she walked down the aisle, his nervous laugh as she slid that same ring onto his left ring finger. I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.

Dora feels a sudden pull to run across town and show him the matching gold band that is meant for her finger, the one she carried with her across the world, the one she could never bear to part with, the one she looked at and would slip onto her fingers on long nights with a glass of wine.

I never forgot about you, either. 

[tiny-as-a-firely]

@incalescentia // prev. post

Dorothea wasn’t quite sure what to do.

It seems like most of her waking moments for the past few weeks have been leading up to this point, a wave hitting the shore. She wasn’t expecting it to slowly dissolve into the sand. She had been prepared for a tsunami. Dora watches as her husband picks up the pen and her heart clenches. A small, broken part of her, perhaps the insecure sixteen-year-old inside of her who loved Shakespeare and Toni Morrison, with dorky glasses and a fear of the unknown, whispers to her. No. This wasn’t supposed to happen so fast. We were supposed to have time. Connie was supposed to fight for us.

Dora stares into his eyes, fingers turning numb. Her eyes filled with tears as she searches his eyes for any hint of anger, any sort of indication that he was willing to do something, she wanted him to yell at her, to scream that he loved her, to say that he would do anything for her. But even she knew that it was not true, no matter what Conrad told himself. Everyone has pieces of themselves that they are not willing to carve out of their souls. Isn’t that what brought her to this point in the first place? In his eyes, all she reads is his declaration of love, his intention to give her one last selfless act: to let her go. And in her eyes, she hoped he could see it: Thank you.

The sound of the ballpoint pen scratching the skin of the off-white paper filled the room. A scar etched in ink under the dim yellow lights.

Dora watched as he walked upstairs, and her memory brought her back to a moment they’d had a year ago. They were sitting on their couch, Connie reading as she scrolled through her computer, casually looking through flight fares. Connie, wouldn’t it be so fun to live somewhere else, she had said. Somewhere magical?

Here is magical. He smiled at her, not knowing that it wasn’t the reassurance she needed, already having looked back down at his book, not noticing as her face fell. Not realizing that she had been trying to tell him about her deepest dreams.

Because somewhere inside her there was a greater purpose, a call to see what was out there, to leave the comfort of these four walls. And in the past year since that night, they’d had several reiterations of that same conversation, a song stuck on repeat, lines drawn in the sand. She didn’t deserve to be stuck. And he didn’t deserve to be resented.

And that’s how a sense of ease washes through her as she comes back to herself, to the person that she’s grown to be. She is no longer the sixteen-year-old with no friends in English class who fell in love with the dorky member of the soccer team who recited love poems to her. Dorothea was larger than life, she was endless and held multitudes, and she deserved to see the world.

Dora turns to face Connie again as he appears with his bag. Her breath hitches as he touches her face, causing tears to burn in her eyes again. She parts her lips and lets him kiss her, the tender touch of him making it so much harder for her to not collapse. As Conrad pulls away she whimpers softly, reaching a hand to brush her fingertips onto his shoulder, tip of her nose touching his – if she can just inhale enough of him, breathe in enough of his air, share in the same touch, maybe she can commit him to memory, always.

Words of desperation are on the tip of her lips: Come with me. Please. Follow me. Share my dream. Want me back. All of me. Wait for me.

But her husband has given up so much for her already. She cannot ask these things of him. Cannot ask him to leave this place, perhaps the only thing in the world he loves more than Dorothea, although he would never admit it with words.

His last words ring in her ears as the door shuts. She immediately scrambles into the living room that looks down at the entrance to their building. An eternity goes by, and every second that passes she convinces herself that he’ll come back, that he’ll tear those papers up and take her in his arms, bring her to bed, whisper that he’ll follow her anywhere.

So much so that when she sees him appear on the sidewalk, she is so shocked that the bottle of red wine slips from her fingers.

Glass shatters, and a blossoming red coating the light hardwood flooring of their home.

It stains the bottom of her dress, invisible on the black fabric.

Dorothea stands there for what seems like hours, barefooted among a ring of broken shards, a dark and deepest red staining her toes, as she waits for her husband to come back and choose her. Her eyes are glued to the sidewalk where he will appear, bag slung over his shoulder, walk back up the stairs, and back into her life.

A sob escapes her the moment something small and frail and delicate breaks inside of her, the moment she knew.

With care, she steps around the broken wine bottle. Dora enters their bedroom and walks straight to their bathroom, washing the red wine stains off of her skin and changing into a pair of pajamas. She glances at Conrad’s side of the sink and picks up a bottle of his familiar cologne, spritzing it on herself, inhaling deeply, her eyes stinging.

She does not spare a glance towards their bed as she walks back downstairs and situates herself on the couch, promising herself that she will clean up tomorrow. Dorothea pulls out her phone and scrolls through the tabs that have been open and hidden for months: Paris. Rome. Greece. Thailand. Japan. Amsterdam.

And with a few clicks, she can feel the cracks in her heart starting to heal over, as Dorothea Hawkins decides to choose herself.