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AGE 23, 5′4, BORN DEC 2, 1996 10:04PM

Honey Weston deserves the label ‘manic pixie dream girl’ more than most, because a majority of the time, she doesn’t realize how she comes off. She’s always been as sweet as honey, which is what earned her the nickname from her older brother, but she’s never really been comfortable in her own skin. She didn’t have a horrible childhood, which doesn’t really make confronting her issues any easier. She’s left, most of the time, with the idea that she’s selfish in the way she can work herself up into nothing, knowing that people have had it much worse. She can be flighty and distant in a way that is wholly involuntary. 

She’s been scared for as long as she can remember, requiring much more time than the other kids when her parents would drop her off at school, but before she was even old enough to recognize that her feelings were a little more than her classmates, she found herself an unwelcome visitor to all of her parents conversations. At night, alone in her bed, she rarely could sleep, hearing sounds that could’ve been the branch against her window, or a little girl eating monster. So more often than not, she hid on the stairs, happy to be in her parents company whether they knew it or not, and most of the time, woke up in her own bed after her father had carried her. 

But more often than not, she also heard her parents conversations. Their disagreements, their upsets. Some were easy to ignore, but most of them, especially the ones about her brother, seemed to shake her. At the tender age of 6 hearing that her big brother was going to “get himself killed”, meant as a phrase to describe his recklessness, was taken to heart by the girl who didn’t really know the difference yet. 

So years later, when he disappeared, and people told her over and over that he was fine, she couldn’t find it in her to believe it. 

That was not the start of her rapid cycling of too much and too little, but it definitely didn’t help. It made it harder and harder to talk to her parents, something in her mind telling her that things were falling apart. Something closer to the surface convinced her that if she didn’t do better, she may end up having to leave the single place on Earth she didn’t feel like an intruder. 

It shaped her as she grew up. It shaped her relationships, the way she would fall in and out of love, go running from people before they could run from her. It shaped the way she got perfect grades, but had no idea what she wanted to do with them, and the way her parents rarely knew what was really going on in her head. 

It even shaped the way that when it was ready to move from her house, she opted to move in with her sister, not really able to let go of the idea of ‘home’ just yet. 

HONEY: 

Honey Weston had grown accustomed to waking up alone. As most everyone did, really. Most couldn’t remember a time when they didn’t wake up alone, until the point where they made a commitment with someone, and started waking up to the same face. Or, depending on the person, a different one. 

But Honey didn’t bring people home. She didn’t inhabit beds unless they held a promise that up until recently, she wasn’t really ready to make. 

And then, she’d fallen into Frankie like a crashing wave, uncontrollably, and without a moment of caution. 

Somehow, through that, Frankie had become a shore to return to, rather than a result of her accidental impact. Somehow, these days, waking up alone felt less like a possibility, and more like a self inflicted punishment. Everything was cold, creeping into her skin, and making the empty space she would never be able to take up feel much wider than it was. 

Days like these are different, when waking came slowly, and saturated with a warmth that could rival the sun streaming through the blinds, spilling out of the breaks like, ironically, honey. 

She’s awake for a few moments before she opens her eyes, mind adjusting to her surroundings, working slowly and almost languidly, as the rest of her senses catch up. They catch the sweet smell of Franklin’s cologne. The slight scratch against the curve of her neck where the even rise and fall of his breath brushes warmth across her skin. Moreso, the hand that is splayed across her back, with an almost saccharine pressure as she is held closely, and tenderly. 

Honey had always thought waking up with a man would be scary. 

It was a fear full of insecurity, and uncertainty, more than anything. That she may not seem the same in the morning, without make up, or the guard of consciousness. That he may be different, or, really, that he may be gone. It was another world, and she always felt like she didn’t have a chance of catching up to what he might be thinking. It was something she avoided when she could, and rushed when she couldn’t. All of the horror stories were branded in her mind young, all the tips in all those magazines about sneaking out of bed and putting on a full face, or blow drying your hair, or even taking a shower before he could wake up. 

But with Frankie, it felt different. The first morning she’d woken up, she’d jumped when she’d seen eyes on her, letting her racing heartbeat still under the soft, assuring hand rubbing her back. 

And it felt silly to be scared, of anything, when he looked at her like that. Like she was precious. Like nothing could make him happier than her just being there with him. 

She’d always felt wanted, being the youngest, benefiting from all the mistakes her parents had made with Gio, and her other siblings, big, or small. They’d perfected school and disapline to a more crafted routine. But she’d always felt struck with the feeling of being utterly, not enough. It had always been there, regardless of what was done, and she had always thought there might be a part of herself that had fragmented early on, remaining broken even as she grew taller and older. 

Just one man wasn’t going to wipe that all away in a few brightly shaded mornings, or with one or two smiles. 

But what it did for her, to wake up to a look like that — she’d never really be able to put into words. 

When her eyes open, she’s greeted only with the ceiling, lethargic fingers splaying out to find themselves curved in black curls, and absently across Franklin’s shoulder. And it’s nice. It’s so, incredibly nice. 

It didn’t seem like the right word, so pedestrian and full of a boring connotation, but that’s just how it felt. Comforting, and sweet, and easy. 

Easy as breathing, really. 

She shifts minimally, carefully stroking against the black curls as she reaches for a phone she is sure is almost dead, or is close to being dead, where it must’ve fallen from her limp fingertips sometime around midnight. She has a few percents left, enough to check the time and see a few texts, but they don’t keep her attention long as she replaces it back on the bed and settles back, letting all evidence of her fingers get swallowed up by the black of Frankie’s hair. 

“Teddy.” She whispers, after a few moments, knowing it was well past the time they’d vaguely planned on getting up. She still would not admit how much having a plan with someone made her whole days better. The quiet way Frankie was always there, inviting her more and more into his life, making her feel less like a page in his book and more like a part of his story.