#delladilly

In this context, the dirt under his fingers feels wrong and he’s sure that he can’t be doing it the same way Dag is doing it, her pale fingers burying themselves deep to press the roots of the seedlings. His hands feel awkward, cumbersome, too rough to make life.

He remembers (or thinks he remembers?) a house by water... plants in pots... a life of greens and blues...

But as soon as it’s there, it’s gone again. Someone else’s thoughts and memories. Another him. Another man. Another life.

How to connect those lost ideas to who he is? How to remember when so much had been taken?

“Oi,” Dag said, pulling on his arm. “You gotta be gentle!”

He looked down at his scarred fingers to find he’d crushed them around the seedling. Dag was shaking his wrist to loosen his grip and so he dropped the now possibly dead plant.

Max stood, moving back, watching the delicate lost piece of green as Dag picked it up and inspected it in her palm. “Can’t,” he told her.

this is my sitcom proposal

i would gay marry both of them, we would all live together very happily raising 1000 children and being wonderful parents, cryin on each others shoulders, ruling the world

THIS IS MY FAVORITE THING, MY FAVORITE CHARACTERS, SOMEONE ASK ME THIS QUESTION INSTEAD

If you could make up an imaginary friend, what would they be like and why?

WHY, YOU, OF COURSE.

I mean, one could also consider my characters imaginary friends of sorts, and I frequently jokingly refer to them as such, but they aren’t aware of my existence (I’m not the kind of writer who discusses the story with the characters in it), so the friendship is kind of one-sided. And also, you know, deeply cruel, considering what I put them through.

robot enemies to friends to lovers