"This isn't fair
Don't you try to blame this on me
My love for you was bulletproof
But you're the one who shot me
And goddamn it
I can barely say your name" -Pierce The Veil
Rhys didnāt know how long he stood there with the note in his hands before his eyes stopped skimming and started actually reading. It was short. So short it felt almost considerate, like James had been careful not to take up too much of his time. A few sentences. Clean. Direct. I wonāt be around anymore. The engagement was over. No reason. No apology. No promise of an explanation later. Not even a goodbyeājust a notice, like a lease termination slipped under a door. His name was signed at the bottom, familiar handwriting suddenly unrecognizable in how cold it felt. Rhys read it again. And again. Waiting for the part where it turned into something else. Waiting for the part where James told him this wasnāt real, that heād be back, that this was temporary. It never came.
The apartment pressed in on him, every room too loud with memory. The couch where theyād fallen asleep together more times than he could count. The mug in the sink James never rinsed properly. The space on the wall where theyād talked about hanging something one day, when things settle. Rhys sat down hard, the note crumpling slightly in his grip, and a broken sound crawled out of his chest before he could stop it. He hated how quickly his mind turned on itself. You shouldāve seen this coming. He replayed every conversation, every hesitation, every moment heād asked too many questions or not enough. Every time heād tried to be better, quieter, easier to love. He thought about the ringāhow James had slipped it onto his finger with such certainty, like there was no world in which Rhys didnāt belong beside him. The memory made his stomach twist. That confidence felt cruel now.
His hands were shaking as he stood and crossed the room, the note slipping from his fingers to the floor, already irrelevant. The ring felt heavier than it ever had, like it was dragging him down. He twisted it, panic rising sharp and fast, the thought drilling into him until it hurt: He left because I wasnāt enough. Because loving Rhys had turned out to be work. Because needing someone that badly was a flaw, not a virtue. He cracked the fire escape window open and cold air rushed in, biting, grounding, almost a relief. For a split second he pressed his thumb against the band, hesitatingānot because he thought James would come back, but because letting it go meant admitting the future heād allowed himself to want was already dead. Then he took it off and threw it. Watched it disappear into the dark like it had never mattered at all.
When he sank back down onto the living room floor, it felt like there was nothing left inside him to hold himself up. Chewy padded over, confused but gentle, curling against his chest without being asked. Rhys wrapped his arms around him, face buried in fur, breath stuttering in and out as the weight of it finally settled. What a fool heād beenāto believe someone could love him and stay. To believe a future was something meant for him. He stayed there on the floor, holding on to the only warm, living thing left in the room. "Don't worry, boy. I'll never let someone do this to us again. I promise you that."
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Imani's got The Mill in his blood, he's only ever been of and for The Mill. He went to Mill Valley, when he speaks, it's with the slow drawl of the island's poorest āĀ it sounds like home, like his mother, who says he sounds so much like his father... he could never think to train himself out of it. He would never dream of any other voice, any other life.
The people of The Mill are his family, friends, neighbors. They're the ones he kicked a ball with on the streets growing up, they were the first subjects of his photography, each crooked photo slotted into a plastic picture slip in a book bursting at the seams of them. They're grainy, overexposed (sometimes underexposed), obviously taken from the height of a small child at first, before they started getting better, more professional, the boy becoming a man, learning how to work the camera he'd inherited from a father no longer of the earth.
In those books, there are classmates, older students, younger students, anyone who was near enough, anyone willing to stand still for even a second ā and candids of those who didn't notice him walking by.
Ray Ventura is barely a year older than him. They shared classes together āĀ Coronadan History, Geometry... Art. They share a district. He's practically kin. His family brought the Eberles meals after the fire, he taught Imani how to tie knots used at the docks (learned from his father, and his father before him, and his father before him) to help tie the fishing boats down. They would sneak off some nights on his father's boat just to sit on the water under all those stars.
There are at least three dozen photos with Ray in them, from his gap-toothed grin as a child, a boy finally growing into his boots, a smiling teenager pushing away Imani's camera lens, hands already calloused from working alongside his father. There are graduation pictures, birthdays, weddings. Little memories, like raindrops on the pages of a book left out in the rain. They will always be there, no matter how much you try to dry the pages.
Ray Ventura is not a killer. Imani has so much blood on his hands, he knows what a man who doesn't looks like. Ray used to hate even the thought of gutting a fish, why would he even think about stealing a rifle? What would he have possibly been doing in Villa Solana? He will never get those images of Ray being led through The Mill in chains out of his head. The news was already speaking about him as if he was the killer. No due process, no assumption of innocence... He's being framed.
But what can Imani do but sit and watch? He has no power, what little money he has is paying his brother's way through university right now, and what's he supposed to do, try to convince the entire du Bois clan that they got the wrong guy?
The Premier's killer is still on the loose somewhere. And if Ray is killed for this, for a crime he didn't commit, Imani will never be able to sleep at night in his head. Mani, he hears Ray's voice in his dreams every night, ayĆŗdame.
his hands will be stained with this blood, too. but, this time, he'll never be able to wash them clean.
ooc: since i intend on using this story for plot purposes in the near future, i figured i'd post it to his blog.
the taste of fresh blood straight from a jugular is so inebriating that he doesnāt quite realize what heās doing.
so rich, so satisfyingā¦ he had been told it was good. better than the bagged, tomato-juice-colored liquid heās used to. but thisā¦ this the best thing he has ever tasted. and he drinks, and drinks, and drinks until heās drowning in it. he drinks until he chokes. until thereās nothing left to drain. and still, he keeps sucking, just to make sure he has taken every single remaining dropā¦
when he lets go of the body, it hits the pavement with a thud. loud and moist, as it crashes against a puddle. its echo rippling through the alley behind the bar.
still engrossed in the high, he doesnāt pay much mind to it. heās too busy licking the gaps between his fingers, the space under his nails. satisfying himself like a child eating ice cream for the first time.
itās only when he canāt taste blood anymore that his senses begin to clear. the world begins to spin at its normal speed again. the rush and the hunger start to wear off. his undead heart slows down. his senses relax. his perception returns. and, in between heavy breaths, asher gradually comes back to reality. thoughts start unclogging, things start making sense. humanity comes back to him, replacing that feral, beastly hunger. and, finally, he realizes.
he stares at the body for a while. face contorted into an expression that seesaws between horror and concern. furrowed brows and agape mouth revealing his terror and disbelief at what lies at his feet.
fuck. he just wanted to give the guy a scare. beat him up a bit and get on with his life. that was not what he wanted. fuck no. that wasnāt supposed toā
he has to do something about it.
does he go for gwen? does he tell her he just murdered someone? she must know what to do in these situations, right?
but then again, she has given him all the instructions. she has tried her best to orient him to not become a murdererā¦ jesus, she's going to be so pissed... actually, no. he isnāt supposed to think about that guy anymore. weakens him, apparently. satan, sheās going to be so pissedā¦
no. he canāt tell her. he has to deal with it on his own. he canāt get into any more trouble.
he looks around, desperate. trying to find something. anything. and as something moves inside a dumpster in the dark, he has an idea.
fucking gross. but time efficient.
he fishes for a trash bag, empties it on the dumpster āĀ the reek of waste and rot torment his nostrils ā and sets it next to the body.
cracking sounds echo through the dark street as he breaks bones and ligaments, like a nutcracker, but tenfold. even with his heightened strength ā on top of what he considered already high strength, even before heād become a vampire ā, he still has a hard time snapping the forearms and legs in halves.
he doesnāt hate the feeling, thoughā¦ not that itās fun, by any means, but he is so caught up in breaking the guyās body into a foldable little mass, that he almost forgets he just took someoneās lifeā¦
when heās done, he fits it all inside the trash bag. he ties it up and heaves it over his back.
a 6ā5 man walking down the streets with a black bag, in the middle of the night. not suspicious at all. nothing to see here! just taking out the trash! into the forest! to throw it in the river! what was he supposed to do? leave a body in the dumpster for a sloppy trash collector to drop it the next day and start a whole police investigation? who would want that?!
when the heavy work is done, he sits by the river to watch a dismembered arm and a leg float away (other pieces had been scattered around the forest in precariously dug holes). and itās only then that the adrenaline starts to wear off. a different kind, though. not the same ecstasy from choking on fresh blood. but a more human, mortal kind. and it finally starts to sink in.
fuck.
he just murdered a guy.
a guy he had met at a bar not two hours ago. sure, an asshole that he had grown to hate within two minutes of conversation, but a human being, nonetheless.
heās done his fair share of wrongdoings in his. way too many for his own sake. but that was a whole new levelā¦
and as a severed foot disappears in the distance, he feels something tug downward inside his ribcage. it isnāt sadness. It doesnāt make him cry. is it guilt? he figures, but he canāt really tell... It is different. unlike anything he ever felt. and it is so, so strange. because he doesnāt know if he feels for the guy, or for someone he might have left behind. or if he just fears getting caughtā¦ but he feelsā¦ wrong.
is this what he has become? is this who he is now?Ā
LOCATION: Hotel in Las Vegas
FEATURED: @giovanniiricci @elliottortegax
MENTIONED: @maevemacnally, @nikodimopoulos
It was done.
The article she had been working on for months was finished and had been posted both on the Tribune's website and on the front page of the print edition.
It was strange how her feelings for the town and the people in it had significantly changed since she had agreed to Dante's ultimatum nearly three years ago. A place she had never anticipated feeling any attachment to had become home, the people in it her friends and family. Now, with it all in jeopardy, she couldn't in good conscience stand aside and let it happen without putting up a fight to make up for her part in it all. What better way to stick it to the head of the organization that had blackmailed her than to use those same connections to out him for who he really was?
And yet... she had miscalculated. What she had viewed as a mercy of not pulling her friend into it ahead of time given all she was going through turned out to be the exact opposite, blindsiding her friends with the reminder of what they had lost.
Grief reared its head in all kinds of ways, but she hadn't expected the pushback. She hadn't expected the anger from Maeve and her family when she thought she was doing something to help, keeping the names of those lives lost at the forefront of the conversation -- a reminder that they hadn't been forgotten, that there were still people searching for the answers to why they had had their lives senselessly taken from them. Now, because of her own selfish pursuit of redemption, she had hurt others and possibly ruined their friendship for good.
Every day since Niko had told her of the collapse of Los Santos -- and as a result, her ring of protection -- she waited for the businessman to retaliate. There was nothing: no refuting her claims, no spinning of some kind of PR story to explain away the evidence she had found. The silence was deafening.
Still, life moved forward. She still had to go to work, put a smile on her face like she wasn't terrified of the other shoe dropping. The weekend of the music festival quickly approached, and she tried to allow herself to enjoy the idea of letting go and forgetting her cares for even a few hours, even though the last couple of events hadn't gone well. But first, she had to meet a client.
Luna had gotten a request for an evening on the Friday of the festival weekend. Niko insisted she cancel, but she figured before she had to face the ire of those in town she'd upset, she could have the distraction of a night in Vegas. To appease him, she kept her personal phone on her with her location enabled as she made her way to the meeting place.
The opulent hotel lobby shimmered in bright white marble with accents of gold throughout. It was enough to tell her that whoever her client was had a lot of money. If she did well tonight, she wouldn't have to work for a little while. She could help Niko with the restaurant, or they could go to Greece like they had talked about. It felt so long ago already, though it had only been a few weeks realistically.
"Excuse me," she greeted the man behind the check-in counter with a smile. "I was told there would be a key waiting for Luna?"
"Ah, yes, I have that here for you." He pulled out a drawer beneath the desk and pulled a keycard from inside, double checking the room number before jotting it down onto the sleeve.
"Thank you. Is he already up there?" Receiving a nod in response, she smiled and thanked him once more before heading to the elevators, heading for one of the penthouse suites. These were her last few moments alone before she'd have to put on an act for the remainder of the evening. Closing her eyes, she took in a deep breath, trying to brush away the uneasy feeling settling like a weight in her chest. Just one night, then she'd be able to work on everything else later.
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to the appropriate floor, and she searched for the appropriate room number. Usually when clients left a key at reception, they wanted things to keep things discrete, so she didn't bother to knock, using the key to let herself in.
The room was dim with only a few lamps lit around the common area, and she didn't immediately notice anyone inside. A table in the eat-in kitchen was set with two glasses of wine and two plates covered by metal domes to trap the heat inside and keep it fresh, but she caught whiffs of something earthy and sweet. "Hello?" she called. Maybe he was getting cleaned up, she thought. "Is anyone here?"
"Hello, Miss Beaumont."
Every bone in her body stiffened at his voice. She'd listened to enough interviews and campaign speeches to know the voice of Giovanni Ricci.
If only she had trusted her gut.
Giovanni casually strode from one of the side rooms, a coy smile on his lips like a cat who'd cornered its prey. She backed up towards the door but was immediately halted in her pursuit by a broad, hard chest behind her. The security guard gripped onto her arms to hold her in place as another locked the door.
"I'm so glad you could join me this evening. Please, sit." Giovanni motioned towards the seat across the table as he took his own, unbutton his suit jacket as he did so.
Mikayla was forced into the seat, though she struggled to get out of the guard's grasp. He grabbed the decanter full of red wine and poured some into each of their glasses. "You're not an easy person to get alone, you know." When she didn't respond, he continued. "I read your article, of course. It wasn't entirely accurate, but I was genuinely impressed by what you managed to uncover. I don't imagine you could have done that without help." His gaze flicked up to meet hers. "I'm curious to know who your sources were."
"I wouldn't be a decent journalist if I didn't protect the anonymity of my sources," she replied.
Giovanni chuckled. "You'd be surprised at what information even a person with integrity is willing to share when they're subjected to pain beyond imagination."
Mikki held her breath. "Is that what you're going to do to me?"
"Perhaps. It depends on you, really." He held his glass in the air, waiting for her to do the same. He raised an expectant brow, the silent tension growing every moment she delayed. Finally, she lifted her own glass and held it up, allowing him to gently tap them together. "I'm hoping it won't come to that if we can reach some kind of agreement."
"Is that all you want to know? My sources?"
"Mm, well," he started after a sip of the wine, "right now, yes, but questions beget questions and so on and so forth." He waved a dismissive hand in the air. "You know how it goes."
"No, actually. This is my first time being interrogated for information."
The other guard who had locked the door came to the table to lift the covers off the plates, revealing a filet paired with mushrooms in some sort of wine cream sauce and mixed vegetables on the side. If it had been offered by anyone else, she would have begun eating right away, but she didn't trust that none of the food had been poisoned or tampered with. That didn't stop the man from digging into his own dinner.
"It's rude not to eat," he remarked, watching her.
"It's rude to kidnap someone, too," she retorted.
"I'd hardly call it kidnapping when you came of your own volition," Giovanni chuckled again. "I suppose if you don't eat it, our other guest will."
Mikayla furrowed her brow. "Other guest?"
As if on cue, the muffled sound of a groan came from the room Giovanni had come from. Mikayla's eyes darted in that direction, her heart racing in her chest. She wouldn't put it past him to use someone in her life to get her to talk based off of everything else she'd learned about the man, but the number of people it could be had become an ever-growing list over the last few years. Who could he have grabbed without anyone else noticing?
"Ah, he's awake. Bring him here, would you?" Giovanni didn't even look up to address the guard, but the man nodded and made his way into the room, grappling with whoever was being held there.
Mikayla's eyes grew wide as a bloodied Elliott was dragged into the room and thrust into the third chair at the table. "Dad! What is he doing here? What did you do to him?!"
"I've grown tired of the traitors within my organization who believe I don't know of their disloyalty," Giovanni replied in a bored tone around the steak in his mouth. The man glanced across the table at her, face stoic. "He's been watching you and your mother for years using our resources. If only he'd done more to hide his allegiances, I might have believed he was true to the cause."
Her father was a part of The Enterprise? The news shook her to her core, but she did her best not to let Giovanni see it. The last thing he needed to know was another one of her weaknesses to use against her.
"If you tell me what I want to know, you both can walk out of here and you'll never have to worry about me again. And if you don't... Well." He smirked. "I'll be forced to get creative."
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The Trouble with Wolves: Aftermath
Mentions of @emissaradia, @studentalthea @freydis-freydat @zelihatheflight @steadythora
There really isn't a moment to herself after all is said and done, no time for all of the things she is feeling. Not until it's the end of the day and she's back in her quarters and taking her crown off of her head with shaking hands.
Althea sitting there in the middle of the room in chains, her hair untamed around her, what sounded like hundreds of voices echoing around the chamber. When she closes her eyes, even briefly, Aurea sees it, feels the fear and desperation that she and Aradia had shared. There had been no time for helplessness then, but it's there now as she sees herself in her vanity mirror. Not a queen, but a girl who had almost lost so many people important to her in a fell swoop.
They were strong, the lot of them, but in that moment as they all scrambled to discern voices, there'd been one in her head feeling helpless, begging her to help them. She was their queen, why couldn't she help them?
A single tear falls from her eye and she sniffles and shakes her head at herself. "It's not real." She said with confidence to the crying girl. "It's not true." Just as she'd told Althea, as she'd told all of them. That was the point of it all, that doubt would freeze them in place and get one of them killed.
Taking a breath she looks down at her hands and despite the weariness and fatigue she feels right down to her bones, there's something else. To let loose a howl after everything was said and done, energized with the light of the moon.
She closes her eyes and instead of seeing Althea in pain and the desperation on the face of her friends, she pictures the pool. A large round pool in the middle of the room that the moon shining from above illuminated, filling it completely. Stepping into it had been like slipping into the moon itself. It'd swallowed her up, regalia and all, and there's this twitching at her fingers that she only ever feels when she shifts.
Opening her eyes and looking down, claws are extended where perpetually unmanicured nails once were. Control over your shifts. That's what she'd been promised. Flexing her fingers, the claws don't go away but she feels she can will them back. They're a reminder that the whole encounter had been real, that she's stronger now, they all were.
And it would be easy to crumple and think about being banished as Thora and Aradia and Althea fought to jump into that pool and take the Blight into themselves. It is something she wants to do, the frustration is still there under her skin. The idea of losing anyone on a quest, especially those that had volunteered of their own free will with no ties to Haven, it terrified her. Freydis, Thora, and Zeliha had no reason to put themselves on the line and yet they had. Althea and Aradia had stood valiantly at her side as they always did and when it had come down to it, they'd protected her.
She had to protect them now. Aurea had to make sure that those that had come to Haven seeking refuge wouldn't lose another home. Going to Aventia was what she wanted to do, what she felt she should, but she would remain to strengthen her borders, train up her wolves.
This new control, she'd use it to defend home and everyone she loved. So all that went off to aid Aventia had something to come home to. So they knew that such a place wasn't just Haven or the Wildlands. That they had a home in the heart of their queen and alpha.
Closing her eyes again, Aurea pictures the women around her joining in on her howl.
"Mrs. Donovan? This is Coach Thompson -- I'm calling to see why Landon didn't come to practice today."
Lydia's brows narrowed as she balanced the phone between her shoulder and cheek, maneuvering a large basket of laundry into her bedroom. Landon's passion for sports turned out to be a godsend for the single mother; three days a week, after school, he immersed himself in sports, affording Lydia the time to tackle the household chores and anything else that needed to be done.
"Not at practice today?" she repeated, a dismissive scoff falling from her lips. "What are you talking about? He packed his shoes this morning before we left. Of course he's there."
"Nope. Front office tells me he left early, but I wasn't informed that he would be missing practice, too. Usually we need a note for this sort of thing, Mrs. Donovan, otherwise he could be kicked off the team and --"
"It's Ms. Donovanāand what do you mean he left early?" Lydia set the basket down, gripping her phone in her hand now. Confusion swept over her; Landon would never skip practice. He wouldn't go anywhere without asking her for permission, and certainly not leave school with someone else without her consent. While her son might've been transitioning into his teenage years, wrought with the occasional moodiness, he had always been responsible and never neglected his commitments.
A long pause lingered on the other end of the line, and Lydia could feel her heartbeat start to quicken. "Says here Chief Donovan sent a male officer to pick him up. He called ahead from his desk at the station, picked him up in a squad car."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, thumb and forefinger meeting in frustration as she shook her head. "Why would heāmy father would never pick Landon up early without asking me first, and there's no way I'd let him send a stranger in his place, officer or not." The silence on the other end of the phone grew deafening this time, leaving Lydia holding her breath untilā
"Mrs. Donovan...you might want to call your father --"
"Yeah, no shit." Lydia ended the call abruptly, swiftly leaving her bedroom and descending the stairs into the kitchen. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe Harold thought he told me, maybe he's trying to teach me a lesson because of the bakery.
Her hands trembled as she dialed her father's number, but for once, it wasn't due to fear of what she might hear on the other end. They hadn't spoken in weeks, not since he had erupted in anger at her decision to sell the bakery. Yet, in this moment, none of that seemed to matter. It couldn't.
A heavy sigh filtered through the line as Harold answered. "Lydia?" He grumbled, his discontent palpable even over the phone.
"Did you have Landon picked up?" She asked. No 'hi' or 'hello' -- there wasn't any time for that.
"Wha --"
"Dad," the redhead's voice wavered as she pressed on, urgency lacing her tone. "Did youā¦ have someone from the stationā¦ pick Landon up?" she repeated slowly, her pacing around the kitchen growing frantic.
He must have recognized the alarm in her voice. "Of course I didn't. Why?"
"I'll call you back." Her eyes squeezed shut, her grip tightening around the device before she hung up, immediately swiping through her phone for the tracking app she used to monitor Landon's whereabouts. "Come onā¦" she whispered as a map loaded on the screen. Bracing herself, she prayed that she would find him at a friend's house, at the park, anywhere but where her mind was racing. Hoping she could find him goofing off, ready to ground him for being utterly irresponsibleā
Location not found.
Lydia let out a ragged breath, exiting the app and immediately dialing Landon's phone number, only to be met with voicemail each time. She dialed again, and again, and again, clinging to a desperate hope that perhaps his phone had simply diedāthough what twelve-year-old lets that happen? Her heart sank, a painful lump forming in her throat as she grabbed her keys and all but ran out of the house.
Once in the car, Lydia hastily pulled out of the driveway and sped towards the police station, dialing every number she could think of on the wayāschool, coaches, parents of friends, siblingsāanyone who might have come into contact with her son, no matter how unlikely. Yet, each call yielded the same disheartening response; they had no idea where he was.
"This can't be fucking happening, this can'tā" The words caught in Lydia's throat as tears cascaded down her cheeks, blurring her vision. Her fingers, trembling with fear, clung to the steering wheel as if it were her lifeline, the leather beneath her touch growing slick with sweat. The weight of the unthinkable settled upon her, suffocating her with its reality. Her twelve-year-old son was missing. Gone. The thought reverberated through her mind like a relentless echo, each repetition amplifying her terror, immediately causing her to pull off to the side of the road. Every parent fears moments like this, but Lydia could never have fathomed that she'd be living it. With every fiber of her being screaming in anguish, she mustered the strength to reach for her phone once more, her hands shaking as she dialed her father's number, the device feeling heavier in her trembling grasp with each passing moment.
"Lydia? Lydia -- what the hell is going on?"
"No one knows where Landon is," she cried, a hand pressed against her chest, her heart pounding in sync with her panic. "Dad, IāI think someone took him."
A couple years ago
For the most part the entire trip has been rather uneventful. While there were a few people in the Tiber Bay that caught my eye, the moment I spoke to them I knew it wasn't meant to be.
There's so many men who see the sea and adventure from below deck but claim to be these wild pirates and everyone can see right through them. I'm not here to slum with someone scrubbing the galley.
I decided to skip the isles and bothered Nari into taking me to Caribella and I truly owe her a favor for doing so. Because I met him.
An actual pirate, a local to Caribella with his sunkissed skin and his curls. He laughs like he doesn't have a care in the world and it's so different from anyone I've met around Eterna.
I will have to tell Eridani that she has won our bet, she was right, I did actually find a pirate to sigh dreamily at. It's hard not to when he's animatedly talking about his travels, the ways of the sea, this captain of his.
Anyways, so we first went down for a walk down by the docks after a few pints, he showed me a spot the locals loved and ....
And then the inn hallway...
Over a barrel of wine...
The hammock situation was new to me though. On the beach, tied between two trees a sheet big enough to sprawl out in. Secluded enough to feel private because again, Robin knew a spot. It's one of the few times I've wondered how many other people he's taken here.
Bit hypocritical.
Anyways...
We laid there together afterwards just talking about nothing, my fingers drawing patterns on his skin, connecting freckles. I was going to miss it.
So things do not go as planned. I didn't think they would, I don't think I could spend an entire three months with one person. But he makes me want to and I might be a fool but I am not foolish enough to think I could ever replace a ship and the open water.
And so...
It just keeps happening, us running into each other, spending time. I don't even care for sailing but we make a day of it, the two of us. It's been maybe a month of this and it feels too easy. There's shades to him that are darker, I know laughter to disguise pain when I see it.
Two more weeks were spent together, making it six weeks I spent making moon eyes at a singular man. A new record, probably, I'll have to go back and reread to be certain.
He can keep his soul and his smile, I won't indulge further, I can't compete with the sea.
I sail back to Eterna tomorrow. I told him maybe he'd see me again some day. I left him a cologne.
Robin
Top notes - Rose petals, lemon
Middles note - salt, lime
Base note - musk, actual sea water
Smells like the breeze coming off of the ocean
