and all that we intend is scrawled in sand
The second she sees him—really sees him—Flora feels her stomach twist, the ache sharp and familiar. Koa stands like she’s some obligation he’s honouring out of duty, not choice, and gods, if that doesn’t tell her everything. Her eyes drop at once, lashes sweeping downward as she swallows hard, regret pooling thick and heavy behind her ribs. Maybe this was a mistake. Apparently, it had been foolish to think he'd look at her like anything but a bruise he hadn’t quite learned to stop pressing on.
Still, she doesn’t tell him to never mind, must as the words bead on the tip of her tongue. Instead, Flora clears her throat softly, the sound half-caught on the weight in her chest. "You said you wanted to talk too," she says, voice quiet and unsteady despite her effort to keep it level. Her hands knot together in her lap as she dares a glance at him, gaze flicking over the pressed shirt and the distance in his posture. "Why don't you go first. My thing..it might be better if it's what we end on."
Still, she doesn’t tell him to never mind, must as the words bead on the tip of her tongue. Instead, Flora clears her throat softly, the sound half-caught on the weight in her chest. "You said you wanted to talk too," she says, voice quiet and unsteady despite her effort to keep it level. Her hands knot together in her lap as she dares a glance at him, gaze flicking over the pressed shirt and the distance in his posture. "Why don't you go first. My thing..it might be better if it's what we end on."
