we write out the ends on our palms, then forget to read
Flora hums, quiet and noncommittal, the sound rumbling faintly in her throat as she watches the sky. Clouds drift like lazy boats overhead—slow, content, oblivious—before glancing at Soh. "That's probably smart." The queen agrees. You couldn't always control who you caught feelings for, and sometimes those feelings made for quite complicated situations, as Flora had learned over the past few seasons with Jack.
She lets Soh’s hand linger on her arm for a few seconds longer than necessary before shifting gently to reach for her lemonade. Her nails clink against the glass as she lifts it, taking a sip like it might wash away the ache pressing tight beneath her ribs. "It’s just—part of the fight was about not running away from each other when we were upset and now here he is doing exactly what he was mad at me for." Her gaze flicks toward Sohalia, not sharp but searching, as if hoping she’ll understand the part she isn’t saying: That it’s not just silence. It’s a shift. A pulling away she doesn't understand.
Flora’s fingers twist the edge of the picnic blanket, her mind too swathed in violet to even consider that Jack might be upset with her because of the letter her friend had recently delivered. She blows a breath through her nose, then forces a smile—bigger than it needs to be. "Gods, listen to me. Melodrama in the sunshine." She flops back again, hair fanning out across the blanket, rings glittering against her chest as she presses the lemonade to her forehead like a cool compress. "Anyway. I'm sure it'll be fine." Her voice is light, almost singsong.
She lets Soh’s hand linger on her arm for a few seconds longer than necessary before shifting gently to reach for her lemonade. Her nails clink against the glass as she lifts it, taking a sip like it might wash away the ache pressing tight beneath her ribs. "It’s just—part of the fight was about not running away from each other when we were upset and now here he is doing exactly what he was mad at me for." Her gaze flicks toward Sohalia, not sharp but searching, as if hoping she’ll understand the part she isn’t saying: That it’s not just silence. It’s a shift. A pulling away she doesn't understand.
Flora’s fingers twist the edge of the picnic blanket, her mind too swathed in violet to even consider that Jack might be upset with her because of the letter her friend had recently delivered. She blows a breath through her nose, then forces a smile—bigger than it needs to be. "Gods, listen to me. Melodrama in the sunshine." She flops back again, hair fanning out across the blanket, rings glittering against her chest as she presses the lemonade to her forehead like a cool compress. "Anyway. I'm sure it'll be fine." Her voice is light, almost singsong.
