Flora
It sneaks up on her: this rhythm, this ease. The way their conversation winds together without them having to try. Flora finds herself smiling before she realizes it, her eyes widening slightly as they catch on his face, as though she’s surprised by the affection curling in her chest at the sight of his smirk. She should have known better; she did know better.
But then he says it, and the way his voice slides around the word love like it used to, careless and fond, has the warmth she’s building inside her chest snuffed out like a candle in a storm. The sunlight in her mind vanishes as the waves still. What had been playful and teasing only moments ago—the floral tang of her thoughts laced with citrus, the fizz of soft laughter like sparkling water—flickers and dies, leaving something quieter. Dimmer. The shimmer of broken glass under moonlight. A pale tide retreating, leaving behind only salt.
Because they broke up. And not with the kind of casual, can-we-talk breakups that leave room for stitches. No, they broke like a hull split open against reef—sharp words, aching silences, the kind of damage you don’t come back from even when you both know why.
She swallows as she picks up her smoothie and looks out the window toward the boardwalk, letting the cold from the cup seep into her fingertips. She doesn’t want to make things worse for Jack just now, not when his mind clearly being held together with salt and string and that piece of bacon between his fingers.
"I think," she says gently, brushing her thumb against the condensation on the glass, "I might take mine to go." There's no bite to it, nor any accusation; just soft edges and the ghost of a smile as she reaches for her toast, tucking the corners of her pain neatly back into the place where she keeps all the other things she doesn’t say aloud. Not that it helps given her present company, which is precisely the point.
But then he says it, and the way his voice slides around the word love like it used to, careless and fond, has the warmth she’s building inside her chest snuffed out like a candle in a storm. The sunlight in her mind vanishes as the waves still. What had been playful and teasing only moments ago—the floral tang of her thoughts laced with citrus, the fizz of soft laughter like sparkling water—flickers and dies, leaving something quieter. Dimmer. The shimmer of broken glass under moonlight. A pale tide retreating, leaving behind only salt.
Because they broke up. And not with the kind of casual, can-we-talk breakups that leave room for stitches. No, they broke like a hull split open against reef—sharp words, aching silences, the kind of damage you don’t come back from even when you both know why.
She swallows as she picks up her smoothie and looks out the window toward the boardwalk, letting the cold from the cup seep into her fingertips. She doesn’t want to make things worse for Jack just now, not when his mind clearly being held together with salt and string and that piece of bacon between his fingers.
"I think," she says gently, brushing her thumb against the condensation on the glass, "I might take mine to go." There's no bite to it, nor any accusation; just soft edges and the ghost of a smile as she reaches for her toast, tucking the corners of her pain neatly back into the place where she keeps all the other things she doesn’t say aloud. Not that it helps given her present company, which is precisely the point.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
