crippling migraine but i’m thinking about julian.
his silence and his empty eyes and his plain clothes, his plain tshirts with the collars and sleeves cut loose, his cuffed jeans — they’re markedly too long; he’s 6’1”, how are they too long? does he buy them himself and just not care what size he is, were they bought years ago by crystal intentionally missized, are they hand-me-downs? — and his well-worn boots, tied tight.
thinking about him ordering at street food places in muttered thai, eternally imperfect pronunciation because he doesn’t speak enough to practice, and perching alone hunched on a wall to eat with the stray dogs gathered around him, passing them each a bite for every one of his own.
thinking about him getting a brutal gash through his brow stitched up in the empty gym without pain meds — he would’ve left it, it was his fault for not dodging fast enough, but it was gaping, and blood kept getting in his eye — and then staring listlessly at his reflection for hours months later, at the scar it left slit through his eyebrow. him sitting on the phone with crystal and letting her say whatever she wants, stolid and silent as she berates and insults him. sitting in a hotel room with crystal and letting her do whatever she wants, empty and obedient. sometimes she’ll hold him afterwards.
does he have a favourite movie or song. does he even know his own favourite colour. does he ever think about what he likes or dislikes at all, or is he so deeply ingrained with the thought that it doesn’t matter. it’s never made a difference, what he likes or doesn’t like, so why think about it at all.
amandla
kianamaiart
germansingergirl
dailybridgerton
