graze among roses.

and there goes every shred of dignity he had left. abandoning him with to the simplest of glances—never to return! he couldn’t spare them any more awkward encounters for the rest of the year, could he. ARE YOU OKAY? define okay. because if the definition contained synonyms such as: humiliated and utterly mortified, then yes—YES, chelsea, he was a-okay.

          ❛     yeah, i’m—i’m fine… one soda coming right up.     ❜

she looks away. and for a second time he treats it as a cue. hoping that she’ll keep her eyes where they were, sparing him further embarrassment by zeroing in on the night’s mishaps. although she should be used to them by now—just as she were him. or had been… before she chose to shut him out. another one of those things that had kept him up as of late. THE COLD SHOULDER :    as icy as chelsea czerny could make it, which to his surprise, was very. circumstance might have to do with it. newfound perspectives even more so. he makes it to the kitchen scot - free. all bumped in the trip his ego, and an unfortunately placed coffee table. 

the popcorn gives him time. plenty of it. in fact, julian would go to the extreme of saying TOO MUCH. because it leaves him alone with his thoughts, and while alone with his body was most certainly desirable, the mind was a creature that oughtn’t be left unattended. it runs free :    wildly, uncontrollably—thrusting him back into the steadying arms of an old friend. a blunt lit, hesitate present yet ignored, and with a lens free of irony, he feels as if he can breathe again. 

THIS WAS NO GOOD EITHER.

weed not only calms, but it also motivates—drawing out creativity out of a boy often found in a writer’s block. and although it could be helpful, at times, it acts a catalyst of sorts now. because his mind circles back. to the humiliation of before, and the one dating even further back than that. it was a bit karmic, he thinks. but while his incident resembled the one of a slapstick comedy, hers was more of a tragic drama. sparing the comedy he’d be sure to perceive come morning. he thinks then, that it’s not even close. that their experiences differ greatly in both genre and humility and so… 

they say AN EYE FOR AN EYE makes the whole world blind. it’s not a proverb which accurately describes their situation, but julian decides it retains the premise. even if he chooses to ignore the lesson at hand. by the time julian’s back on the couch, the popcorn’s burnt and the spliff gone. her soda’s forgotten on the kitchen counter, and if you were to ask him tomorrow, he’d argue his brains were left alongside it.

         ❛     it was what it looked like. what happened earlier—it was what it looked like.     ❜

some ice breaker. said to have the subtlety of a hand grenade… then again, julian apolskis had never been much for tact. the chord between mind and mouth frayed at best. it gets worse when he smokes. worser when he drinks. and it occurs to him that this might count as CHEATING. how one could break rules yet to be established, and if so—established by themselves, was a mystery even to the boy which had thought it. he turns.

         ❛     and look, i realise i’m making things REALLY AWKWARD right now, but i thought you should know… because i embarrassed you, and so now i’m embarrassing myself. and it’s only fair, and—and i’d really like it if you stopped treating me like a leper. which… well, this really isn’t helping, is it?     ❜

it’s not, and all the reasons why he thought it might begin to escape him. it works, though—in humiliating himself, thus evening the playing field. but it didn’t strike him as a possibility before, that perhaps this wasn’t the solution to the problem had. and that maybe, while it embarrasses him, it embarrasses her too. you’re an idiot, apolskis.  i know.

          ❛     … okay, this all sounded a lot better in my head.     ❜

he dips into the kitchen before she can press the matter, and she sighs, settling back into the couch in almost a defeated sense. she hates this      ————      dancing around in anxieties and worried glances. she doesn’t let him touch her, either, because now even the simplest brush of fingers sends her spiraling back to that night, and then drowns her in previous experience. it’d be so easy, to get caught up in everything that julian was, but she can’t allow that      ————      not when it serves as a reminder to her being the means to an end.

she smells the marijuana not long after he enters the kitchen, and she sighs once again. she knows this will only lead to conversation, and she doesn’t want his excuses      ————        i’m sorry, you’re my best friend, i didn’t want to hurt you. it’s always the same with him, and she wonders if she should’ve listened, when she was urged to grow beyond him. but she could never leave julian behind      ————      something in her is just TOO KIND, despite being used again and again.

he returns and head rises to glance his direction      ————      he’s back, sans soda, and the expression on his face is determined. knees are pulled to chest and she listens to him confirm thoughts       ————      yeah, it was linda alright.   “ i think i would’ve been okay without confirmation that a movie character turns you on, ”   she says, a little exasperated, before letting him continue. brows raise at words, and she wonders if she should LEAVE      ————      let him wallow in whatever guilt he held, and walk away. but she doesn’t.

SHE NEVER DOES.

   “ i      ————      look, juls, it’s not ... i’m sorry. it’s just ... that meant more to me than it did you, and everything just reminds me of that and      ————      ”  she cuts herself off, burying head in her arms, embarrassment tinging cheeks. she wishes she were like PIPPA      ————      committing to what she wants, unafraid to pursue it. instead she’s CHELSEA      ————      sad, boring, uninteresting. a SECOND CHOICE.

popcorn. kitchen. getting up. an escape most tempting in concept, yet absolutely dreadful in practice. he should’ve waited it out :    this need to be alone, only he didn’t. because julian apolskis doesn’t know how to filter his thoughts accordingly. instead, they come pouring out at conception. premature, and raw. it’s not the dumbest thing he’s said as of late. chelsea could attest to that. and it’s not even a contender for the shortlist without proper context. still, it acts a reminder of his idiocy. a nod, julian now waits until her attention returns to the film before he rolls off the couch. or rather—climbs off it :    refusing the act of standing up, as a normal person would, when other parts of him already had. then he lands on hardwood with a thump. one loud enough to warrant eyes snapping back to him. well shit. and he stays there :     dumbfounded, kneeling at the sofa’s edge—using its stature to conceal everything from below the torso. it was possible he did not think this one through.

         ❛     anything to drink?     ❜

attention returns to television, movie re - capturing attention that floats listlessly between it and him. she’s focusing so hard on the movie that she doesn’t notice him attempting to slink off the couch until the thud of him hitting hardwood startles her. head snaps to him once more, and concern colors features as she leans towards him.

   ‘ are you okay ? ’   tone is worried, and she moves closer, prepared to offer him a hand, when she notices position. awkward. cheeks tinge pink, and she swats the thought of her mind      ————      it’s completely unrelated to her. she bets it’s STACY     ————      she’s hot, so why wouldn’t he get a boner from that ? she looks down at hands, picking at skin around fingernails, while she pushes thoughts of inadequacy from her mind.

@deathborne​ !!

it’s difficult to look at her the same—to watch legs pull to her chest without picturing them parted; to follow the movement of lips without remembering how she tastes; to listen to her speak without moans echoing. two months pass them by and the memory grows more vivid. fonder, too. flashbacks working the way of  tides :     rolling in, slowly, in times such as these—just the two of them, a movie, and wandering eyes—then like a flood come nighttime. chelsea insists on staying friends, and he graciously accepts. but then she shies away from his touch. making it difficult again—this time to return without the memory of how she’d cried. a PUSH & PULL created at the very sight of her. a flutter in his stomach as jeff spicoli makes her laugh, one down farther by a gaze travelling past her collarbones, and a pit formed when he notices the intentional space between them. to view at as something other than rejection would be impossible, and to solve why it even matters would be too. julian wonders what it’d be like to have her back close. as they’d once been. limbs tossed over one another’s haphazardly, shoulders bumped… but also in a way that placates all of him. he imagines then—what it’d be like to hold her hand. a craving horridly overshadowed by a need to adjust his posture :    legs crossed, then bent, until finally a decorative pillow acts the saviour. what was wrong with him?

         ❛     … you, uh—you want popcorn?     ❜

she feels foreign     ————      out of place, like she’s not really there. it’s how everything feels, lately, whenever she’s around julian. she doesn’t know how to act. so she’s closed in on herself     ————      withdrawing from closeness, freezing at his touch. because what HAPPENED means more to her than to him, and so where comfort was once found there is instead a fountain of anxiety. knees are pulled to chest, and eyes are glued to television. she’s seen fast times more times than she can count, but she doesn’t allow gaze to wander, instead feigning normalcy. she gets lost in movie easily, allowing it to provide comfort while feeling alien around him. they’re on opposite ends of the couch, and she finds herself missing their normal movie nights, sprawled over one another and throwing popcorn at each other. his voice surprises her, and head snaps from movie to him unconsciously.

palms lay flat against damp earth, and after a moment—however uncoordinated of a moment that may be—he leaves their spot indefinitely. jeans are wet at the knees, the t-shirt thrown cold with morning dew as well. but julian yanks it over his head nonetheless, shivering more in it than he did without. or maybe it’s not about the shirt at all. instead about the absence of something else. he’s not looking, still he knows her to have gone tepid—warmth having left chelsea just as he had. it’s not a metaphor. NOT REALLY :    because he’s there, handing her clothes found at dirty sneakers, and he’s staying there. however succumbed by embarrassment and guilt and a wish to RUN AWAY, julian stays. 

          ❛     chelsea…     ❜

IT’S NO USE. to claim otherwise or to confirm because it all acts a nail in the coffin. he’s sorry and he should be—but apologises are reserved for people who want to hear them. so, for once, he shuts up. he chooses a silence unfilled and he lets it go. there only being so much he could do. except make it worse. that seemed like something julian could do and perfectly too. from the corner of his eye, movement catches in a window lit—one lone shadow darting across, and he knows that’s no use either. so he turns back around. WAS SHE CRYING? you’re no good, apolskis. you’re really not. his hand extended, he does what he can. 

          ❛     chels, come on, you’re not going back in there.     ❜

he withdraws, distance put between them, and she notes the absence instantly. because where she was once warm there’s now an emptiness, and cold air bites angrily at exposed skin. she wraps her arms around herself, drawing knees to chest in an attempt to conceal. he says her name, and she waits for the apology that she knows is COMING     ————      and yet it never comes. and so she stares, into the darkness, tears streaking cheeks silently, until he speaks again.

                              ‘   MY POINT EXACTLY.    ’ he wouldn’t want to be associated with pippa either. there’s a streak of meanness that runs through him, can’t be flushed out, encoded in his dna or something. he’s stopped trying, stopped feeling guilty over it even. besides, pippa’s the maker of her own reputation, and rumours circulate like mayflies, swat one away and they come back tenfold. she’s just another victim of this stupid town. ‘   what are you drinking ?   ’ he asks, though he already knows. ronald’s cheap, provides refreshments so people will come, waters them down so he can keep hosting these shit-fests. he’s not that desperate for small talk, but this is the first party he’s been too in a while, so he may as well make an effort.

SHE’S RIGHT. of course she was right. it’d only been two weeks since his perception had changed :    of her, and of them together. two weeks since he could’ve sworn friendship was all there was. and despite the night’s events, julian would’ve said the same hours ago. because up until now—the way he’d thought of chelsea czerny didn’t correlate with the way he’d touched her. SHE’S RIGHT, AND HE’S A DICK. but as much as he was wrong, julian was argumentative. finding the nerve—or rather audacity—to push back when he ought to stay quiet. this time not motivated by the humour of being contradictory… but offence, and desperation alike.

         ❛     well m - maybe i do. maybe… shit—i don’t know.     ❜

shut up, shut up, shut up… gaze averted, he gifts attention to the dark buildings around them. dark, not empty. and it’s a confirmation that arrives with the one closest coming alive. fuck indeed. before his own shirt is reached for, julian offers chelsea her own. all whilst eyes stay avoidant—as if looking at her now was different than looking at her before. suppose in a way, it was. mostly, he thought she wouldn’t want him to.

          ❛     ——     here.     ❜

WHAT’S CHANGED    ————      what, with them, is different ? because she hasn’t CHANGED    ————      she’s still just chelsea, the same girl she was two weeks, two months, two years ago. he didn’t love her then, so why would he love her now ? part of her wishes he’d stay QUIET, just leave it be. but he struggles, and she instantly wants to provide comfort, but all that’s there is emptiness.

she’s given something to someone who doesn’t L O V E her.

it’s such a STUPID notion, but with past experiences lingering at the forefront of on - coming wave of thoughts, she can’t help but think it, even briefly. he looks away, and she suddenly wishes the ground would swallow her whole. he hands her something, and she pulls it     ————      her pajama top, she realizes    ————      over her head clumsily. he still won’t LOOK at her, and panic that’s threatened to build suddenly flares in chest. she’s going to get in SO MUCH trouble for this ( she just knows it ) and he can’t even bare to LOOK at her.

was she really that bad ? was hearing i love you worth the knowledge of knowing it was a LIE ?

part of him hopes she’ll ignore it—move on, and forget that he ever spoke. but luck hadn’t ever been on his side before. between abandonment and cancer, and then a mixture of the two, julian’s misfortune throughout the years is well - documented. and oh - so - busy.    YOU DON’T MEAN THAT.    except he does. because he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. right? his words are never chosen to placate. so, he must mean this, too. right? except he doesn’t. not in the context implied, and not in the way he should.     BECAUSE HE SHOULD. 

then, for the first time since the night had turned, julian dwells on the meaning of things. why he did the things he did, why he said the things he said—but his state makes for a lacklustre discovery.    HE FEELS CAUGHT :     between what he wants and what he doesn’t want… the two points playing tug of war with a mind already distractible, only somehow—THIS TIME; julian apolskis doesn’t wish he was sober, but instead too drunk to recall the next day. embarrassment flush weary features, as her touch had done before, and he stammers on his words.

         ❛     no, i do—     ❜

cornered by his own mistakes, the path chosen is distance. a move most piss poor in what he’s sure her expectations to be, but like always—he falls short:    both in action, and inaction.     BECAUSE HE MEANS IT.     and he doesn’t. a distinction she’s bound to catch on a face most transparent. he thinks again that he should—to do what they did, and who he did it with—god, he should. shouldn’t he? the implication all but missed to even him. IN HINDSIGHT. so he’s caught for a second time :    between what he understands and what he doesn’t… a breath lost in the thickness of the air (once light and breezy, now syrupy and difficult to inhale), his words soon follow suit. the next move then becomes getting his clothes back on. boxers pulled up, jeans tagging along—a t - shirt tossed haphazardly staying out of his reach as tension holds him hostage.

           ❛     chels, i’m sorry.     ❜

she pulled back at words, though not far, but it stings when he moves AWAY and begins to re - don clothing. she sits up, crossing arms at chest and look anxiously for own fabric. i do, he says. not the way i want, she thinks. thoughts are jumbled, and she wishes her mind to be quiet so she can sort through it    ————      so she can find the words for feelings that bubble beneath surface.

   ‘ no you don’t, juls. not the way you should if you’re saying during sex. ’   tears threaten once more and she uses palms to rub face, skin prickling as cool breeze wafts over them. his sorry, though, threatens to ruin any SEMBLANCE of composure kept    ————      it feels like finality, and for a second fear blossoms in chest. he’ll leave, she thinks, though she knows it isn’t true. he’s gotten what he wants and he’ll leave. she wants to tell him she’s sorry too    ————      sorry that she couldn’t be enough, couldn’t be what he wanted, what he needed.

she shivers, and out of the corner of her eye she spies the hall light flick on. feelings of fear shift, and she turns to stare wide - eyed at front door.   ‘ fuck. ’   phrase is whispered into the night, and she returns to search for clothing with a new intensity.

unlike their situation—and much more like the one overarching—julian’s movements fail to represent haste. and somehow, mind trumps body :    ignoring basic desires for an unknown sentimentality. it feels good—correction :    she feels good. creating a notion of want that defies logic in its quest for longevity. he wants her and he wants this and it proves in the way he kisses her. again, and again, until breathlessness becomes him. and it’s all so cliche, isn’t it. had he been gifted a different point of view :    one vacant of strawberries, soft lips, and friction—he’d chastised himself for it. tomorrow he would. but god, did he want tomorrow to never come… contradicting with a pace quickened, and breath caught. features bury themselves in the crook of her neck :     soaking up the warmth she emits, all while restless hands continue their exploration—clinging to every curve, and in turn, to chelsea too. he knows then, that it isn’t his brain running the show. because the distraction of chelsea czerny is one too grand, ridding him of both lucid thought and consequential thinking… and when that high finally comes, his mind is lost altogether.

         ❛     fuck—i love you.    ❜

the words breathed are caught against skin but still spoken, and surely heard. as if the night hadn’t been riddled with mistakes, or the nights leading up to it—as if thought was put behind what he offers her. both in speech and in action. it is careless, and ultimately, it is cruel. even if it acted the slip of the tongue, it was one slip - up amongst many he could not afford. and by the time he comes to the realisation, seconds have already passed. idiot, idiot… you stupid fucking idiot. 

pleasure ripples through body in waves and she loses herself in the MOMENT, lips moving from lips to neck and hands roving body. she’s exploring him as he explores her, and for a few moments there’s nothing but quiet gasps and muffled moans. she’s so enamored by him that she nearly misses omission as climax is reached, and she moans his name in tandem. moments are taken to collect before she speaks.

   ‘ you don’t mean that. ’

if it’s not the autumn cold that brings on a shiver down julian’s spine, then surely it is the weight of her words—and his composure thus bends beneath. cracks manifesting, all while warmth collides with prickled skin, leaving him flushed all the same. his hands, now abandoning post, choose the hemline of her clothing instead. and as silk slides down bare legs, julian’s attention follows in their trek. first with a lingering touch, then—as pink finds itself among dampened grass—with lips tracing the inside of her thighs. there’s no need for the SEDATION which resides in a pace chosen (chelsea’s request more than proof of the fact)… still, julian’s motions are deliberate in their venture—hands travelling curves, one winding up the way of flushed cheeks—fingers cupped along the bright crescent of her features. the other’s occupied, too. waistline of his boxers tugged, untouched by the very grace which he gifted her own, and then kicked to his feet. he kisses her again—again, and again, and again—before finally easing himself into her. relief breathed through a kiss UNBROKEN, the decision of motions unrushed is mirrored here too. his thrusts slow despite every instinct in his body screaming for the opposite. 

spontaneous wasn’t an adjective used in the context of julian apolskis yet the situation called for a synonym of its kind. with cold nibbling at bare skin, a girl exposed underneath him, and his own pants soon down at his ankles—it suited him well. although while his movements are but rushed, this surely was… and it fails to register. because he’s drunk still and she’s pretty always. what ought to be considered then isn’t the logistics, or even the possibility of being caught red - handed (a concern dismissed long ago)—hell, he could even wave off the MEANING of it all, if only to ponder the timing of it. TOO SOON, TOO FAST… and had he given it time, then all of the above would’ve been solved, too. but he didn’t, and there they are :    her pleas relished in, as legs free themselves of denim. 

          ❛     please what?     ❜

a simper outline his lips, still keeping to the warmth of hers. and without the added request, julian’s touch ventures beneath silk once more. trailing the contour of wet cotton :     movements indolent, no longer muted—but bold, emphasising a question posed. the languid practiced far from one desired, with impatience wearing him down thin.

he’s on her level now, in terms of clothes    ————      or lack thereof. and he wants her to say it    ————      to beg for him and everything, maybe. fingers follow shape of body, of inner crevices and soft curves. she’s never been THIN     ————      a fact she hates    ————      with curves and general softness about her. and while she HATES her body, she finds herself not drowning in insecurities as his hands learn her form. she has no words, and instead hopes to express what she wants through hunger in the kiss and the way her body squirms beneath his. she’s impatient now, though words would never be spoken    ————      he’s more EXPERIENCED now, she thinks, so he should be leading. and if this was the pace he craved then so be it. but hand still rests at waist, though now it’s the waistband of boxers that fingers graze.

it acts as a RELIEF now. but it’ll surely SUFFOCATE her tomorrow. if not him knowing then odette knowing the very same. there’s something DANGEROUS about that—having spoken it aloud, leaving herself vulnerable… to what, she could not say. she knows, still, that one of these days it won’t feel like this. and like with toothpaste squeezed out, there’s no forcing those three little words back in. she doesn’t understand why escape routes draw themselves in the back of her mind :     at home, in the car, out there, in the warmth of his embrace… and she should. what’s been experienced in the past ought to be addressed for the sake of her future, but it never is. never will it be either. instead she has this—the temporary safety felt, and the GOOD NERVES flickering alight.

          ❛     yeah?     ——     prove it.     ❜ 

had their situation differed, the argument would be LASTING. a point proven, then confirmed aloud—because he wanted to hear her say it. but where they stood, or rather laid, left no room for long - winded quarrelling. for she admits defeat, and her touch works to distract him further. it rids him of all motivation to pester—instead gifting julian apolskis with every urge to return to the warmth of her. doing as once requested :    his own hands leave chelsea, only to tug a t - shirt over his head—and as he suspects the cold had her, it comes for him.  

           ❛     good.     ❜

and lips reconnect :    proving to all—himself and chelsea included—that the ultimatum hadn’t been one he would’ve been keen to uphold. perhaps it’d only taken further pouting on her part to make him reconsider. not mattering much now, he re - directs his focus unto her in a different light. his touch wandering the arches of her body as her own works tethered jeans. 

he doesn’t push for her to say it, and for that she’s grateful    ————      it avoids more distraction from the very important activity they’re in the middle of. she watches, in quiet awe, as he removes his shirt and returns to her lips, kiss working as a reminder of what she won by admitting a small defeat. as his touch returns to exploration, hers returns to fumbling with button and zipper on jeans, silently deciding he’s wearing too much in comparison to her. fingers are cold, and thus she struggles with task a few times before victory.   “ please, juls. ”

it would be so much easier :    to accept her refusal at face value, and then pursue what it is that he actually wants. because he knows it’s not this. even if rosey cheeks, wide eyes, and ruffled hair cause a tug of his lips. CUTE. he meant that. and everything else that’s being said, too. but while he could, he won’t. instead the emotional trumps the physical (as it always would with julian), and it leaves him stranded—stuck in between a suffocating want, and caring in abundance. her touch offers him warmth :     all while arms prickle, hairs raise—and he leans into it. for the moment.

          ❛     yeah, and you’re being cute—    ❜

emphasis placed, intent clear. head lowered, and lips reconnect. before she can spout another protest—another heart - wrenching rejection of all that he says. all that he believes. his hand leaves her features, too. only to return to its hungry wandering :    moving down, shaping against other curves. she must be cold. and if not, then something else entirely. THEY SHOULD GO INSIDE. but comfort is found where they lay :     even as the cool breeze biting, at chelsea more so than himself. moving back now…

          ❛     —and i won’t kiss you again until you stop disagreeing with me.     ❜

he challenges. an ultimatum which comes with brows raised, mischief gleaming behind bright eyes. and he smiles. it’s stupid, then again—so is he. whether or not she’d disagree with this too, he didn’t know. it’d be stupid for her to. because there was NO BLUFF to be called, and if there was a point to be proven then julian apolskis was for certain a lost cause. still… he hopes for that white flag waved high. 

she doesn’t have time to argue, as lips reconnect with hers moments after reiteration of you’re cute, though she wonders if she would’ve even bothered. hand moves to rest on exposed skin, sending goosebumps up her arms at his touch. maybe inside would be warmer, and surely more private, but chelsea can’t bring herself to say anything    ————      fear of breaking the moment, afraid that it’ll ruin this little slice of peace and comfort.

THERE ARE OTHER THINGS :     that he should focus on—the way moonlight cascades; illuminating flushed features, dishevelled curves, and the dip between her breasts. THERE ARE OTHER IDEAS :    that he should entertain—relieving the constraint felt, kissing her again, and stripping her out of all the rest. but as she rejects what he offers (as more lay in store), it’s hard not to feel… blame? as if insecurities stem from nothing more than julian apolskis himself. and if it’s his job to undo all that’s been done or rather hasn’t. it clogs his motions—forcing him to a halt, as kisses trailing her jaw abandon their work. 

         ❛     … no?     ❜

he stays there now. basking in her abashed gaze, features suddenly SOLEMN—serious to a degree which the night had yet to see. the placement of her hands is not LOST on him but he deems importance to lay elsewhere. his own settled :    one cupped around a rosey cheek, another soft in its grip of her thigh. HE SHOULDN’T CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY—making this about him, and this, yet he manages. expression puzzled, he offers words that go beyond simple REASSURANCE.

          ❛     you have no idea about the effect you have on people. do you?     ❜

she doesn’t know how to react to it     ————      this shower of compliments he was offering. SHE DOESN’T KNOW how to accept it graciously, to say thank you and move on. years of insults and back - handed compliments. he halts as she denies, and skin feels bare without his lips on it. she shakes her head in response, knowing another no will have the same questioning. face is solemn, and fingers leave hair to trace the lines of his face. she wants desperately to wipe away the flat expression, to see the smile he’d had moments ago return. 

one hand cups her cheek and the other holds her thigh, sending warmth running through her veins, an odd sensation almost unfamiliar. this isn’t about him     ————      not her insecurities. they’re a result of her existence, a burden for no one but her, and yet he appears to blame himself. she wishes he wouldn’t     ————      wishes she could protect him from the spiraling endlessness that is chelsea czerny.