you don't know that you're living 'til you're carrying scars
Flora steps lightly from the shadowed path to the lantern‑lit sand, and the hush that greets her feels almost reverent—salt‑sweet wind teasing loose curls across her cheeks, jasmine and lavender brushing her bare arms like familiar fingertips. Mateo ’s handiwork clings to her curves in a living tapestry, each blossom fresh from his patient coaxing: star‑white jasmine tracing the line of her spine, dusky lavender spiralling down her hips, ivy threads lacing it all together in soft, verdant strokes. Every breath fills the air around her with a subtle perfume, a quiet announcement of her arrival that needs no fanfare.
She pauses just long enough for torchlight to spill across the gown, petals catching gold and rose as though dawn has decided to stay and dance. Somewhere ahead, Remi and Ronin stand beneath their garlands—warm earth and twilight ocean—shining in one another’s gaze, and the sight knots something gentle and aching beneath her ribs. Loneliness is a shy ripple rather than a wave tonight; still, she smooths a hand over her skirt as if reassurance might bloom beneath her palm.
By the drinks table, glass pitchers flash amber and ruby in the dusk, and Flora reaches for a slender stem before the attendant can even turn. Sparkling cider, bright with citrus and a hint of honey; it fizzes up in greeting, catching stray flecks of lantern‑light until the liquid looks almost star‑struck. She pours a second flute with the same deliberate care, tilting the crystal just so to preserve every midnight bubble.
"This one’s yours, Enzo," she murmurs to herself, voice swallowed by surf and song yet steady all the same. She sets the drink beside her own, assuming that Remi will have made it so that her twin could attend.
She pauses just long enough for torchlight to spill across the gown, petals catching gold and rose as though dawn has decided to stay and dance. Somewhere ahead, Remi and Ronin stand beneath their garlands—warm earth and twilight ocean—shining in one another’s gaze, and the sight knots something gentle and aching beneath her ribs. Loneliness is a shy ripple rather than a wave tonight; still, she smooths a hand over her skirt as if reassurance might bloom beneath her palm.
By the drinks table, glass pitchers flash amber and ruby in the dusk, and Flora reaches for a slender stem before the attendant can even turn. Sparkling cider, bright with citrus and a hint of honey; it fizzes up in greeting, catching stray flecks of lantern‑light until the liquid looks almost star‑struck. She pours a second flute with the same deliberate care, tilting the crystal just so to preserve every midnight bubble.
"This one’s yours, Enzo," she murmurs to herself, voice swallowed by surf and song yet steady all the same. She sets the drink beside her own, assuming that Remi will have made it so that her twin could attend.
you're either falling in love or you're falling apart
