With no one wearing their real face It's a whiteout of emotion
Pausing mid stride, she glanced back over a thin shoulder, expression unreadable. Her silence was a question, patient in the lingering hush until the man coughed up his question, only to turn brittle in the aftermath. Answering demanded and explation, after all. Required laying bare embarrassingly intimate details about herself she wasn't sure a stranger needed to know. The silhouette of him in the wan moonlight offered little in the way of encouragement; his face was a blank mask, the unassuming outline a painting that moved her not at all.
Still. She knew the kind of courage it took to ask questions. Especially of strangers. Especially when the answer might not be what you wished to hear.
"It means just that," she murmured, in the end. "There are some things you cannot run from - no matter how tempting it is to try." Some things would keep haunting you until you turned to face them, and others would never leave your shadow entirely regardless of how you tried to make amends. Forgetting everything wouldn't erase what happened, only bury it. The good, along with the bad.
Still. She knew the kind of courage it took to ask questions. Especially of strangers. Especially when the answer might not be what you wished to hear.
"It means just that," she murmured, in the end. "There are some things you cannot run from - no matter how tempting it is to try." Some things would keep haunting you until you turned to face them, and others would never leave your shadow entirely regardless of how you tried to make amends. Forgetting everything wouldn't erase what happened, only bury it. The good, along with the bad.
And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
Maea
