flora
Flora startles at the sound of a voice—familiar, painfully familiar—and her breath catches sharply in her throat. Her first instinct is to hastily scrub the tears from her cheeks, though she knows it won’t do much good; her face is still flushed, her eyes still lined with pink from crying. But gods, she can’t be seen like this, not now, not by—
She peeks out from around the tree, half-hidden behind the massive trunk, and nearly forgets how to breathe.
Koa?
For a second, she just stares, like her brain is still catching up to reality. Because what were the odds? What were the fucking odds that of all the people she might run into here, it would be him? He looks different in the way that time makes everyone look different—subtle things, new angles, unfamiliar edges—but he’s still him. Still the boy she once knew better than anyone, the boy who had held so much of her heart, until—
She swallows hard, blinking rapidly, words trying and failing to make their way past the knot in her throat. "I—" She starts, but her voice cracks, and she clears it quickly, forcing something steadier. "I’m—"
She isn’t.
She lets out a sharp, unamused huff, shaking her head as she presses the heels of her hands against her eyes for a second. "No," she admits finally, exhaling hard as her hands drop back to her lap. "No, not really." The words feel like a surrender, but she doesn't have the energy to pretend otherwise.
She peeks out from around the tree, half-hidden behind the massive trunk, and nearly forgets how to breathe.
Koa?
For a second, she just stares, like her brain is still catching up to reality. Because what were the odds? What were the fucking odds that of all the people she might run into here, it would be him? He looks different in the way that time makes everyone look different—subtle things, new angles, unfamiliar edges—but he’s still him. Still the boy she once knew better than anyone, the boy who had held so much of her heart, until—
She swallows hard, blinking rapidly, words trying and failing to make their way past the knot in her throat. "I—" She starts, but her voice cracks, and she clears it quickly, forcing something steadier. "I’m—"
She isn’t.
She lets out a sharp, unamused huff, shaking her head as she presses the heels of her hands against her eyes for a second. "No," she admits finally, exhaling hard as her hands drop back to her lap. "No, not really." The words feel like a surrender, but she doesn't have the energy to pretend otherwise.
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?
