Flora
Tomorrow night.
The words brush against her skin like a feather at first, but they settle too cold. Still, she doesn’t move; not as the music hums around them, not as a bubble floats past and bursts quietly against the shoulder of her sweater. The warmth of his palm lingers at her waist, but Flora stays still, the way a wave holds just before it crashes.
There’s always this with them. A thread that weaves gold and gossamer through the air when they’re together, and yet somehow they still keep walking in opposite directions along it. The same fabric, but stitched into different patterns. It’s beautiful, until it’s not. And this? This is not.
Flora steps back, and the chill hits instantly, but the loss of his touch is only part of it. Her seafoam cardigan might as well be gauze for how it fails to keep the sudden cold at bay, her arms crossing tight around her middle like she can trap the heat before it slips through her fingers, too.
Frustration flares first, painting her cheeks with colour again even as her eyes sharpen to something harder, more wounded. "You didn’t." Her voice is soft, a whisper dragged from the bottom of her lungs, but there's nothing gentle about it. It’s an accusation wrapped in silk, trembling at the seams as she forces her chin up. "You didn’t wait," she says again, clearer this time, breath sharper. "You started something with someone else."
The words taste bitter on her lips. Not because they’re a surprise—Flora’s been dancing with them in her chest since the Sugartide, since before—but because saying them aloud makes them real again. Irrevocable. Her fists clench before she catches herself, before she can betray how deep the splinter still goes. So she folds her arms across her stomach instead, locking it down, wrapping it up. Trying to keep herself from bleeding out in the middle of a sun-drenched street where strangers still sway to the music like everything’s fine.
"I know what I said," she huffs, the words half a sigh, half a sob that never breaks. "I told you to go be with Caly. I tried to do the right thing." Her gaze flicks up, catching his, storm-slick and sea-sharp. "But you were the one who did it. You built something with her, or at least tried to. You made plans. You wrote letters. You talked about her like...like she was it." No she wasn't saying he should have just stayed single forever, but having tried to kindle a love with someone else certainly undermined Flora's ability to believe him saying that he'd waited.
The next words come quieter, like they’ve slipped past her defences before she can stop them, unsure if they’re anger or ache or both. "So how am I ever supposed to believe that you’re not taking the memory of her home with you right now? Or someone else?"
The words brush against her skin like a feather at first, but they settle too cold. Still, she doesn’t move; not as the music hums around them, not as a bubble floats past and bursts quietly against the shoulder of her sweater. The warmth of his palm lingers at her waist, but Flora stays still, the way a wave holds just before it crashes.
There’s always this with them. A thread that weaves gold and gossamer through the air when they’re together, and yet somehow they still keep walking in opposite directions along it. The same fabric, but stitched into different patterns. It’s beautiful, until it’s not. And this? This is not.
Flora steps back, and the chill hits instantly, but the loss of his touch is only part of it. Her seafoam cardigan might as well be gauze for how it fails to keep the sudden cold at bay, her arms crossing tight around her middle like she can trap the heat before it slips through her fingers, too.
Frustration flares first, painting her cheeks with colour again even as her eyes sharpen to something harder, more wounded. "You didn’t." Her voice is soft, a whisper dragged from the bottom of her lungs, but there's nothing gentle about it. It’s an accusation wrapped in silk, trembling at the seams as she forces her chin up. "You didn’t wait," she says again, clearer this time, breath sharper. "You started something with someone else."
The words taste bitter on her lips. Not because they’re a surprise—Flora’s been dancing with them in her chest since the Sugartide, since before—but because saying them aloud makes them real again. Irrevocable. Her fists clench before she catches herself, before she can betray how deep the splinter still goes. So she folds her arms across her stomach instead, locking it down, wrapping it up. Trying to keep herself from bleeding out in the middle of a sun-drenched street where strangers still sway to the music like everything’s fine.
"I know what I said," she huffs, the words half a sigh, half a sob that never breaks. "I told you to go be with Caly. I tried to do the right thing." Her gaze flicks up, catching his, storm-slick and sea-sharp. "But you were the one who did it. You built something with her, or at least tried to. You made plans. You wrote letters. You talked about her like...like she was it." No she wasn't saying he should have just stayed single forever, but having tried to kindle a love with someone else certainly undermined Flora's ability to believe him saying that he'd waited.
The next words come quieter, like they’ve slipped past her defences before she can stop them, unsure if they’re anger or ache or both. "So how am I ever supposed to believe that you’re not taking the memory of her home with you right now? Or someone else?"
I hope you're sweating the bigger stuff,
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
Code stolen from Queen Sky
