cstellosâ.
thereâs a moth crawling on the window. the sound and movement catch willâs attention and he stands, the empty space in his wake instantly becoming occupied by the pillow, which sits there slumped in a position thatâs eerily similar to the way will was just hunched over at his laptop. he shuts the blinds in the mothâs face and pretends heâs doing it a great disservice. itâs a cia moth, it came here to spy on them. but it canât very well spy on them now, can it? âfuck you, moth,â he tells it. on his way back, he grabs a sweater, and uses it to make a tiny bed out of the chair. heâs too big to curl up in it. he tries anyway, lying at an odd angle on the pillow. ânah. those taste fake to me. i think itâs the fuckinâ lack of chocolate.â he shuts his eyes. âyou need a ratio, or else itâs so fuckinâ weird. itâs like taking a bite outta the uncanny valley.â
the moth is watched intently. itâs an unspoken suspicion, one juniper thinks she can decipher by the way the corner of his mouth might quirk, the rigidity in his shoulders. yellow light from the desk lamp glows weakly in the windowpane, an artificial sun in the gloom of the night sky and trail of cobwebs that reach out, veiny in the brightness. â the moth says fuck you too, â she murmurs, thumbing the edge of her textbook for the newest dog ear to be added at the top of a page. sheâs too lazy for bookmarks â or perhaps without one again, the last crumpled 7/11 receipt swept up by the hungry mouth of a vacuum. legs tucked under her, itâs a subconscious mirror of her friend. theyâre alike, a matching set of statues she thinks, although itâs hard to deny the slight chill that rests on the bare skin at the ankle of her trackpants that forces her to huddle. her words are muffled around the candies. â but itâs not about the chocolate. itâs about the peanut butter. â a pause, as if to contemplate a deep thought embedded. â it isnât meant to be real sweet. more savoury and sweet, yâknow? â she makes to read a page of her textbook, words running over but not sinking in. with a huff she glances back up at him, laughing breathily at the swathe of blankets will buried himself under. â câmon. you canât say all of itâs bad. itâs like, a guilty pleasure or whatever. wait. nostalgic. thatâs the word. â












