you look like my next mistake
Flora grits her teeth, her arms still folded tightly across her chest as she glares at Jack like she could set him on fire just by willing it hard enough. "Oh, fuck off with that," she hisses. "You know what isn't true." And he did, thanks to his telepathy, though apparently asking him to read between the lines of the messages she sent him was perhaps asking too much. But of course she had wanted him to ask. And yeah, obviously she wanted him to chase her, to ask where she was going and when she was coming back—but why shouldn’t he have? Why was it always on her to go to him, to push and pry and pull just to get him to care out loud?
She shakes her head, curls bouncing, her jewelry glinting sharp in the late afternoon light. "How am I ever supposed to have a conversation with you when you tell me that basically you're going to do whatever the fuck you want and if I say anything to the contrary I'm being controlling." Her voice is low, biting, her nails digging into her own arms.
"So yeah, I left, because it's nice to be around people who actually like being around me." She huffs sharply, blinking against the sting behind her eyes, tilting her head up toward the sky like she can somehow force it back down. But oh, the betrayal is blooming inside her like a thorned vine, twisting tight around her ribs, pressing against the space where she keeps the things she doesn’t want to say out loud; I don't think you actually want to be with me, Jack.
She shakes her head, curls bouncing, her jewelry glinting sharp in the late afternoon light. "How am I ever supposed to have a conversation with you when you tell me that basically you're going to do whatever the fuck you want and if I say anything to the contrary I'm being controlling." Her voice is low, biting, her nails digging into her own arms.
"So yeah, I left, because it's nice to be around people who actually like being around me." She huffs sharply, blinking against the sting behind her eyes, tilting her head up toward the sky like she can somehow force it back down. But oh, the betrayal is blooming inside her like a thorned vine, twisting tight around her ribs, pressing against the space where she keeps the things she doesn’t want to say out loud; I don't think you actually want to be with me, Jack.
