Everest
The moment Isla’s footsteps faded down the hall, something inside Everest seemed to snap—not loudly, but with the slow, hairline crack of something splintering under pressure. He sat still for a moment longer, his fingers digging lightly into the edge of the blanket, eyes fixed on the pattern of light playing across the wall.
It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. The weight of his own thoughts pressed against his temples, everything louder now, colours wrong, angles too sharp. Words echoed inside his head in the wrong order, like hearing a conversation underwater—his, hers, someone else’s. The sheets were too soft, the air too salty, the light too fractured. He took a shuddering breath and curled forward, hands pressing to either side of his skull, trying to compress the noise into something manageable. Too much. Too much. Too much.
Shifting felt like relief. Felt like release from the cage he'd been thrown back into.
Bones stretched and reformed without resistance, and the quiet whimper that left his canine throat was almost inaudible. As a shepherd, Ever’s world was still saturated in scent and sound and sensation—but it was simplified. Prioritized. He didn’t have to speak. He didn’t have to explain. The dog shook once, hard, and padded down the hall with practiced care, claws ticking softly against the floor.
When he reached the edge of the main room, he sat—back straight, tail tucked neatly around his side, ears slightly lowered but attentive, waiting, politely, by the door.
It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. The weight of his own thoughts pressed against his temples, everything louder now, colours wrong, angles too sharp. Words echoed inside his head in the wrong order, like hearing a conversation underwater—his, hers, someone else’s. The sheets were too soft, the air too salty, the light too fractured. He took a shuddering breath and curled forward, hands pressing to either side of his skull, trying to compress the noise into something manageable. Too much. Too much. Too much.
Shifting felt like relief. Felt like release from the cage he'd been thrown back into.
Bones stretched and reformed without resistance, and the quiet whimper that left his canine throat was almost inaudible. As a shepherd, Ever’s world was still saturated in scent and sound and sensation—but it was simplified. Prioritized. He didn’t have to speak. He didn’t have to explain. The dog shook once, hard, and padded down the hall with practiced care, claws ticking softly against the floor.
When he reached the edge of the main room, he sat—back straight, tail tucked neatly around his side, ears slightly lowered but attentive, waiting, politely, by the door.
If I told you that you'd do nothing with it
I'd still be that cigarette that you couldn't finish
I'd still be that cigarette that you couldn't finish
