؛ ଓ @lizziesaltzman, ‥ LIZZIE ⤑ Asked: “ I’m not sad. I’m pissed off. ” / Always accepting !
No flinch. No flicker. Not even a whisper of retreat. Skye stood in the storm of Lizzie’s voice like it was rain she’d been walking through for centuries— acid-laced, grief-shaped, blistering. She didn’t hush her. Didn’t reach for some delicate, perfumed balm to smother the raw edge. She simply saw her. Really saw her. Because if time had taught Skye Mikaelson anything — anything worth keeping — it was this: Anger wears grief like a second skin. And pride, poor pride, knots the laces too tight to breathe. A step. Just one. Slow as dusk. Quiet as forgiveness. Her arms, loose. Her breath, steady. Hair of gold catching fractured light, eyes the cobalt of oceans older than language, soft now. Awake. Unflinching.
“ I know you’re not sad, ” she said, voice not soothing— no. Understanding. A still lake that reflects even the ugliest sky. “ You’re angry. And you have every right to be. ” A pause. Eyes drop. Hands trace ghosts. Then: “ You know… my sister used to say that too. ” Word for word, she said— when the world was cruel, when the people we loved loved us poorly. When the heartbreak was too swollen to name. Rebekah would rage like fire escaping its hearth— throw glass like it was language, slam doors like punctuation, shut the world out just to prove she didn’t need it. ( She did. ) And Skye? She let her. Let her fight shadows with fists of thunder, even when it broke her. Even when it split her heart in quiet, unseen places. Because Rebekah thought the anger made her steel, when all it did was hide how close she was to shattering.
Skye leaned — barely — against the desk’s weathered edge, folded arms, but not closed off. Space, yes. Distance, never. “ Being pissed off means something mattered. ” A breath, a weight of centuries wrapped in something feather-light. “ It means your heart reached out, and wasn’t held like it should’ve been. ” And that? That was not weakness. That was a pulse. A signal. Proof of life in a girl who’s had to hold more than she ever should’ve. Skye exhaled. Not from fatigue, but from the ache of words that had lived too long in her ribs. “ But don’t let rage be the only voice. ” Because rage, sweet, holy rage, will scream. And scream. Until the softer parts of you — the small, scared, tender ones — are drowned. And those parts? They matter too.
A smile, crooked with sorrow. The kind you wear when you’ve loved ghosts too long. “ You don’t have to pretend with me. ” She said it like a spell. Like a truth. Like a door left open. “ I see you, Lizzie. ” Not just the polished pieces. The mess. The fire. The ancient ache in a girl too young for such tired eyes. “ I’m not asking you to stop being angry, ” Skye murmured, voice dipped in dusk and memory, “ I’m just asking you to let me stay when the silence comes too. ” A tilt of the head. A brush of blonde against cheek. “ You’re not alone, little star. Not now. Not ever. ” And then— nothing. But not the kind that leaves. The kind that lingers. The kind that holds the room open. That says: I am here. Even when you’re not ready to say you need me. I’ll still be here.
