rimmed glasses trail along the bridge of her nose, a situation she treats as a conundrum rather than adjusting the vital accessory. her vision blurs for a split second and the scent of freshly ground coffee fills her senses, calls her name, a break in routine for a habit she can’t seem to let go of — a daily latte whenever she comes to the cafe to study. she ought to stave herself of caffeine, she knows ( the typical warning of ‘it’ll stunt your growth’ rings in her ears every time she orders a new cup ), and she could start small. teas with a lower caffeine content or even decaf but it seems like a forbidden word compared to heaven in a mug with cute art atop it to boot. how could anyone resist?
as if she has an affinity for it, fleur feels blissful as she takes a sip, the warmth of the cup seeping into the palms of her hands and it’s the only moment she will take off the gloves for a second; because it’s just not the same. writing in them has become second nature by then. years and years of practice long before her arrival to the institute but less glances, less confused stares, and less of a ‘wow you’re so odd’ consensus. it almost feels nice to blend in.
colorful gel pens accent the small pile of post-its and notes she’s accumulated on her table and it’s organized chaos to her, the textbook nestled in her lap between her and the table as an intent gaze studies the printed words. an attempted commitment to memory as she reads and it’s as close to a commitment she gets these days. “ subsonic combustion . . . hydrocarbon . . . “ words are murmured but barely processed — nothing sticks and she can’t seem to focus. the only thing she could seem to focus on is the coffee she picks up once again.
