flora
Tears track warm down her cheeks before she even realises they’ve escaped, sharp as needles, so sharp she has to squeeze her eyes shut against them. The ache is too familiar—too much like the lighthouse, his words cutting through her like they were branded into her ribs: You’re tellin’ me you’d be happy, then? Lovin’ me, knowin’ I don’t know how to give you what you need in return? And wasn’t that the same question they were still circling now, seasons later, all the wanting in the world pulling them back into the same storm? He'd said he'd figure himself out, then, but she'd let his had fall away and had to claw him back after that, how the work of it had felt like proof that he was worth the wreckage. And now here he is again, not begging, not pining—because he never would—but still holding something out to her, still offering himself in the way Jack Barclay could.
She doesn’t wipe at the tears; they fall freely, darkening the sheets in little bursts like rain, staining the moment in a way her heart insists is permanent even though she knows it’s all already broken. She’s still in his bed. Still crying for him. Still caught in a cycle she can’t tear herself out of.
When she finally looks up, her throat is tight, her voice warbled despite her effort to steady it. "I know you love me," she says, the words trembling but true, as undeniable as the salt on her lips and cheeks. Her aqua eyes meet his then, glass-bright with hurt, with something almost like hope she hates herself for carrying. "But do you think you can make me happy?"
Because love has never been the question, not with him, it’s the happiness she’s afraid of, the part that feels like smoke in her lungs every time she reaches for it. The part that feels foolish for wanting to say she loves him and to hear it back. She’s always been the one to soften the edges, to call the scraps of tenderness sweet when they came from Jack, to name the rare effort trying because it was his. But lying here now she wonders if it will ever be her standards that count, her needs that shape what they are, or if it will always bend toward him until she’s left aching in the spaces she thought were meant for her, again and again. The wondering is entirely without venom, because if they were going to have this conversation, they might as well have it, and she would never fault Jack for being who he was—even if it broke her heart.
She doesn’t wipe at the tears; they fall freely, darkening the sheets in little bursts like rain, staining the moment in a way her heart insists is permanent even though she knows it’s all already broken. She’s still in his bed. Still crying for him. Still caught in a cycle she can’t tear herself out of.
When she finally looks up, her throat is tight, her voice warbled despite her effort to steady it. "I know you love me," she says, the words trembling but true, as undeniable as the salt on her lips and cheeks. Her aqua eyes meet his then, glass-bright with hurt, with something almost like hope she hates herself for carrying. "But do you think you can make me happy?"
Because love has never been the question, not with him, it’s the happiness she’s afraid of, the part that feels like smoke in her lungs every time she reaches for it. The part that feels foolish for wanting to say she loves him and to hear it back. She’s always been the one to soften the edges, to call the scraps of tenderness sweet when they came from Jack, to name the rare effort trying because it was his. But lying here now she wonders if it will ever be her standards that count, her needs that shape what they are, or if it will always bend toward him until she’s left aching in the spaces she thought were meant for her, again and again. The wondering is entirely without venom, because if they were going to have this conversation, they might as well have it, and she would never fault Jack for being who he was—even if it broke her heart.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
