#feuillesmort

Pulling herself up and out of the ground had been quite the task, so much so that she’d barely been focused on anything around her. From what she could remember, this place was empty, simply forest, and that’s why she had run there in the first place. But now, there was people, or at least, a person, and a building of some sort. She blinks a couple of times, wipes some dirt from her face, and realizes that they had asked her a question. 

“Uhm.” She doesn’t really have an answer, because she doesn’t really know what had happened. Instead, she’s left there, sitting on the ground, covered in dirt, trying to figure out what is going on. She knows what had lead up to this, but not why she was here, or why she was even awake. “Who are you?” 

   ❝ did you wanna ... pray - before we go ? ❞  she does, obviously,    as she hesitates by the doorframe. they couldn’t stay here : one    strong wind & this shelter was gone. but her fear of the outside ...    ❝ just in case ? ❞  

He has a gun pointed on her, which is great. She can’t stop focusing on how different the gun looks than the kind that she’s seen in her life, even though she knows that it’s not important. She had come back from nearly dying, just to get close to dying all over again, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it. There are tears in her eyes, at the moment, the stress of this just being way too much.

“I-I don’t know what’s going on.” And that’s the honest truth. This is not the first person who has tried to kill her, lately, but he’s the one that seems the most alive, out of all of them. “I-I don’t know where I am, or what happened to everything, or anything. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” And that includes him, despite the gun.

   ❝ tea ? ❞  offered, trying to be a gracious host.  ❝ i’m glad you agreed    to come by. i’ve been staring for so long ... ❞  his head gestures to    an array of unfinished paintings, all of which are abandoned.  ❝ i don’t    even know where to begin on these. ❞   

      time passes without a response from her.  but that’s a norm with her texts, where she lack time to make an one word reply to kill a dying conversation.   instead, she replies through her entrance in his bookstore.  her back straightens off the door, twisting to face him.   perhaps he felt an extra warm over his hands in the past few minutes, as her hands hold the pizza box.  she angles the small facing of the pizza box for him to see olives check off in bold red.  her stony layer across her face hides the twinkle in her eyes  (and they say she doesn’t have a sense of humor).      ‘  where do you want this?  ’