flora
It isn’t the answer she’d wanted from him, but she hadn’t wanted him to lie either; the ring on her finger aside, lies now would only bring the fragile thing crashing down faster. Still, her lips betray her, twisting into a shape meant to hold back tears, her hand rising quickly to swipe at her cheeks as if she might erase the evidence before it sets. If she stripped everything down to bare truth—not just for him, but for herself too—she could admit that yes, he could make her happy in flashes, in fleeting sparks, but strung together? Gods help her, she thought the answer was no. Not unless some part of him softened, the parts calcified by loss and now by immortality. And that, she knows, is not a thing she can ask of him. The real question—the one she can barely stand to face—is whether it even matters.
When she was younger, she would have burned everything for him, reduced her world to ash and called it enough just to bask in the warmth of his gaze. But growing older had turned her greedy—not just for love, but for happiness too—and the people who had loved her along the way had only reinforced the idea that she deserved both.
Jack's words catch her, though, the turn of them pulling her eyes up to his, sharp as if she’d been struck. "I do think I can," she says, soft but stubborn, clinging to the thought like driftwood. "I think I did make you happy." Sure, she pissed him off plenty too—but didn’t he think he was happy with her more often than not? She could soothe his storms with her thoughts, tease his mouth into that reluctant grin, spark enough of something that he wanted to keep her close. She’d done the things he liked, she’d given him what he asked for, hadn’t she? And yet, if he’s saying this now, maybe she wasn’t as good at it as she thought.
Her head dips in a nod, more to convince herself than him, the movement small and fragile as a leaf caught in the tide. "I know," she whispers, and then, softer still: "I didn’t think we’d get here so fast." The admission breaks unevenly against the hush of the room. "I knew that this couldn't last forever, but..I thought we’d have more time to enjoy it first." A breath catches in her throat, torn between laugh and sob. The fact that they had was only further evidence of how simultaneously compatible and incompatible they really were together. They’d always been incendiary—two flints striking too close, sparking so bright and hot that the world tilts on its axis. What they had could light up a coastline, but left to its own fire it would reduce them to ash.
When she was younger, she would have burned everything for him, reduced her world to ash and called it enough just to bask in the warmth of his gaze. But growing older had turned her greedy—not just for love, but for happiness too—and the people who had loved her along the way had only reinforced the idea that she deserved both.
Jack's words catch her, though, the turn of them pulling her eyes up to his, sharp as if she’d been struck. "I do think I can," she says, soft but stubborn, clinging to the thought like driftwood. "I think I did make you happy." Sure, she pissed him off plenty too—but didn’t he think he was happy with her more often than not? She could soothe his storms with her thoughts, tease his mouth into that reluctant grin, spark enough of something that he wanted to keep her close. She’d done the things he liked, she’d given him what he asked for, hadn’t she? And yet, if he’s saying this now, maybe she wasn’t as good at it as she thought.
Her head dips in a nod, more to convince herself than him, the movement small and fragile as a leaf caught in the tide. "I know," she whispers, and then, softer still: "I didn’t think we’d get here so fast." The admission breaks unevenly against the hush of the room. "I knew that this couldn't last forever, but..I thought we’d have more time to enjoy it first." A breath catches in her throat, torn between laugh and sob. The fact that they had was only further evidence of how simultaneously compatible and incompatible they really were together. They’d always been incendiary—two flints striking too close, sparking so bright and hot that the world tilts on its axis. What they had could light up a coastline, but left to its own fire it would reduce them to ash.
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
