you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody
With the taste of him still clinging to her lips and his words blooming slow and bittersweet in her ears, it’s far too easy to believe they might somehow make it work. That if she kissed him one more time, or reached far enough, or simply refused to let go, they might untangle the knots of their ruin and begin again. But Flora has always thought in singular threads—one path, one passion, one impossible hope. Jack’s mind was a web, a universe of contingencies and shadows, and gods, that difference had always made her feel so seen and so alone, both at once.
And so what now? Choose the ache of walking away, knowing it was the right thing for both of them? Or choose the other heartbreak—the slow, blistering burn of staying and destroying each other until the love turned quiet, until neither of them cared enough to cry about it anymore?
If it had been her choice, Flora would have stayed there, arms locked around him, her lips buried in the crook of his neck where his scent still clung to her skin. She would have let the illusion of their closeness stretch on until the pain dulled, or until it tore her in half. But Jack—who had always known when to cut a line loose—steps back. The moment he does, it tears something from her like a stitch yanked too early. The frost of his magic trails down her skin and she wants to scream, to sob, to fall into the space he’s placed between them like it might swallow her whole.
Instead, she nods. Because of course he’s right. He always is.
"Okay," she whispers, the word fragile and false and softer than she wants it to be. Her eyes track to the walls, still scrawled in the golden rain of her heartbreak and the crimson ache of her love for him, vivid and raw as if her soul had been painted onto the stone. "I’d say you have no idea how much it meant to me that you came," she murmurs, a faint smile touching her lips even as it fractures, "but..." Well, he did.
And when he asks if she’ll be alright, she doesn’t try to lie. Doesn’t throw up her usual defences or cover it in sass or silk. She just shrugs, slow and small, like someone shouldering grief instead of shaking it off. Like someone who knows alright might be a word that lives in other people’s stories now, but not in hers.
And so what now? Choose the ache of walking away, knowing it was the right thing for both of them? Or choose the other heartbreak—the slow, blistering burn of staying and destroying each other until the love turned quiet, until neither of them cared enough to cry about it anymore?
If it had been her choice, Flora would have stayed there, arms locked around him, her lips buried in the crook of his neck where his scent still clung to her skin. She would have let the illusion of their closeness stretch on until the pain dulled, or until it tore her in half. But Jack—who had always known when to cut a line loose—steps back. The moment he does, it tears something from her like a stitch yanked too early. The frost of his magic trails down her skin and she wants to scream, to sob, to fall into the space he’s placed between them like it might swallow her whole.
Instead, she nods. Because of course he’s right. He always is.
"Okay," she whispers, the word fragile and false and softer than she wants it to be. Her eyes track to the walls, still scrawled in the golden rain of her heartbreak and the crimson ache of her love for him, vivid and raw as if her soul had been painted onto the stone. "I’d say you have no idea how much it meant to me that you came," she murmurs, a faint smile touching her lips even as it fractures, "but..." Well, he did.
And when he asks if she’ll be alright, she doesn’t try to lie. Doesn’t throw up her usual defences or cover it in sass or silk. She just shrugs, slow and small, like someone shouldering grief instead of shaking it off. Like someone who knows alright might be a word that lives in other people’s stories now, but not in hers.
