And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do
Everest’s brow furrows as the other man flinches—visibly, instinctively—like he’s bracing for a blow. The sight catches in his chest like a too-sharp breath, confusion flickering briefly across his face before being shoved down, replaced by caution. He doesn’t move closer. Just stands, stock-still and blinking, as the man fumbles for something in his bag and scribbles a note with rapid efficiency.
No worries. The smiley face throws him.
Everest shifts his weight, glancing down at the paper, then up at the man, then back again. The quiet of it—the whole exchange—settles over him like a soft blanket pulled too suddenly. It takes him a beat too long to realise he’s still holding his breath, and another to exhale it as he nods, quickly, a little stiffly, and begins adjusting the pouch at his side so it won’t spill. He doesn’t answer aloud. Just kneels in the sand with exaggerated care, legs folding beneath him like a formula he’s followed a hundred times.
He sets the pouch between them like a peace offering. A few bits of rounded glass catch the sun.
When the second note appears, Everest squints at it. The word meditating feels slightly out of sync with the way the man had recoiled earlier, but Everest doesn’t say that. He just lifts one hand and points gently to his own ear, then tilts his head to the side—questioning, but not pushy. A careful kind of ask: Can you hear me? it means, though he doesn’t say a word.
And then, just in case, he offers a small, apologetic smile.
No worries. The smiley face throws him.
Everest shifts his weight, glancing down at the paper, then up at the man, then back again. The quiet of it—the whole exchange—settles over him like a soft blanket pulled too suddenly. It takes him a beat too long to realise he’s still holding his breath, and another to exhale it as he nods, quickly, a little stiffly, and begins adjusting the pouch at his side so it won’t spill. He doesn’t answer aloud. Just kneels in the sand with exaggerated care, legs folding beneath him like a formula he’s followed a hundred times.
He sets the pouch between them like a peace offering. A few bits of rounded glass catch the sun.
When the second note appears, Everest squints at it. The word meditating feels slightly out of sync with the way the man had recoiled earlier, but Everest doesn’t say that. He just lifts one hand and points gently to his own ear, then tilts his head to the side—questioning, but not pushy. A careful kind of ask: Can you hear me? it means, though he doesn’t say a word.
And then, just in case, he offers a small, apologetic smile.
