@revnants — “it's hard to know when it's too late.”
her words land soft but heavy, a quiet truth wrapped in guilt. you don’t answer right away, expression flickers between a flinch and a freeze. like the words hit a nerve you didn’t know was still raw, stitched together too fast and not deep enough. the line of your jaw tightens, then loosens, like your chewing on the edges of something sharp–restless, usual hum of agitation dulled by something slower. a thought too big to say out loud. you can see it in her, too. the weight of everything left unsaid, everything she’s done, everything she hasn’t done. and under it all, maybe the scariest of all, the smallest flicker of hope–or fear. sometimes you struggle to tell the difference. the silence stretches, and you breath in like you are going to speak before it loses itself in the cavern of chest. (what would you even say? that you’ve lived most of your life inside of too late? the walls built around body were nothing compared to the ones built in your head? that most days you don’t know if your memories are yours or were they stitched together by someone else?) you have heard those words before, a thousand different ways—behind glass, under restraints, in whispers that thought you weren't listening.
“too late for what, cate?” you step closer, slow, not threatening–just drawn. to her. to answers. you don’t feel the need to tell her your thoughts, of the hesitation in the curl of your fists. she knows. she somehow always knows. you look at her like you are a man trying to recognise something familiar in the ruins of what you became. there is nothing poetic in the way you say it, rehearsed too many times–too many conversations that go nowhere. you stopped hoping people mean what they say when they make promises with soft voices and nervous eyes. “too late to fix it?”
