۶ৎ there’s been a perpetually pained expression woven into his features since that night — the ridges only deepening as the days go by. he looks so small in these moment, alone, nothing like the man she knew — and she wonders if this is the boy she never had a chance to meet. the boy who resided just below his flesh, just below his sureness. it makes her wonder why she’d never had the opportunity to see this vulnerability — she thinks she might’ve liked it, but then again, bearing witness to it now, she thinks if it were possible, it might’ve stopped her heart. she shouldn’t be here, should she? but then again, why shouldn’t she be? it wasn’t like she was given some handbook: what to expect when you’re expecting dead. no, there hadn’t been a guiding light to bring her home or higher power to greet her at the pearly gates ... she’d just woken up. she hasn’t the slightest clue on how to navigate life after death, or really … how to navigate alone. she’d never done complete independence well, and oh how lonely she’s been these weeks, with him just out of reach. so she does the unthinkable: she reaches for him. her hands stuttering in their path, but the moment they make contact with his back, all second doubt drains from her. there’s a new found confidence in which arms encircle his torso, hands caressing around front to his chest, her face pressing gently into his shoulder. “when was the last time you slept?” she asks with a feigned concern, as if hoping to be relieved by his response — as if she didn’t already know the answer, as if she didn’t know he was wearing thin from the lack of it.
SINCLAIR, H. ⟳ 🍋 ... @patriarclair
