flora
"ReAd ThaT in A boOk SoMewhErE," she mutters, mostly to herself but loud enough for the sea to carry fragments up toward the Ark’s deck. She doesn’t bother raising her voice again—not when the damage is already done and Jack's up there, insufferably handsome and infuriatingly unbothered—as if he hadn’t shattered her like driftwood on the rocks and left her to piece herself back together with nothing but salt and spite.
In her mind, the words are louder. Hotter. A slow, relentless crackle like lightning under her skin—bruised-purple heat blooming through the wreckage he left behind. You read it, she realizes, the notion needlingt through her like broken glass. You saw every word I wrote and said nothing. Not even a fuck you. Just silence. Like she didn’t matter at all.
And he’s so casual about it. So godsdamn indifferent that it makes her want to scream. In the space between her thoughts, the mental image of her mind twists sharp and acidic; a shipwreck half-swallowed by the sea, coral blooming through cracked wood and ruined sails tangled with memories too jagged to keep. There’s glitter scattered like sand across the ruin, luminous and impossible to fully wash away, no matter how long the tide comes in. He is everywhere inside it—every rope, every nail, every echo.
Still, outwardly, Flora straightens. She tugs at the hem of her bikini top with more aggression than strictly necessary and turns just enough to toss a hand toward the ocean with queenly disdain. "How generous of you," she calls up, sugary venom lacing each word, though the poison is one that sinks into her skin. The weight of it presses like wet rope across her chest, because no matter how sharp her tongue, she’d never wanted it to end this way. Not with sarcasm and sunburn and stolen wind. So, Flora turns away before she can break her own resolve and flops down on her towel again with more force than necessary, knocking over her drink in the process.
In her mind, the words are louder. Hotter. A slow, relentless crackle like lightning under her skin—bruised-purple heat blooming through the wreckage he left behind. You read it, she realizes, the notion needlingt through her like broken glass. You saw every word I wrote and said nothing. Not even a fuck you. Just silence. Like she didn’t matter at all.
And he’s so casual about it. So godsdamn indifferent that it makes her want to scream. In the space between her thoughts, the mental image of her mind twists sharp and acidic; a shipwreck half-swallowed by the sea, coral blooming through cracked wood and ruined sails tangled with memories too jagged to keep. There’s glitter scattered like sand across the ruin, luminous and impossible to fully wash away, no matter how long the tide comes in. He is everywhere inside it—every rope, every nail, every echo.
Still, outwardly, Flora straightens. She tugs at the hem of her bikini top with more aggression than strictly necessary and turns just enough to toss a hand toward the ocean with queenly disdain. "How generous of you," she calls up, sugary venom lacing each word, though the poison is one that sinks into her skin. The weight of it presses like wet rope across her chest, because no matter how sharp her tongue, she’d never wanted it to end this way. Not with sarcasm and sunburn and stolen wind. So, Flora turns away before she can break her own resolve and flops down on her towel again with more force than necessary, knocking over her drink in the process.
The rumors are terrible and cruel
But honey, most of them are true
But honey, most of them are true
