Honey wherever you go, I know
He falls easily enough, hasn't stopped really. The sand will stick to everything it touches, much like her words, leeching color out of every little bit of the world. He leans back into the shore, feet to the waves that break nearby, wondering when they might creep up and claim him too, if he lays here long enough.
Everything she's trying to say to make it all land softer only drags through him that much sharper. She's thought about it too, their life together. Says she'd be happy, that she wants it, but she won't take it. She'd rather the echo of heartache she's dressed up as love, because at least hurting is something familiar. That's the core of it—she's not willing to risk anything for him in the end, and he'd just thrown it all in.
This must be what love is then—one person always willing to give it their all, the other asking for more.
He lets her hold his fingers, but none of the feeling reaches him. She can't hand him warmth while also describing ice. A little bit of life flickers to the surface, like nerves responding to a jolt out of habit, when she says if she chooses them. He tilts his head towards her, searching for some sign amid her gaze that she's still unsure, that there's still room for him, because everything so far has only sounded like you'd be great, but I choose something worse. Here he thought hurting her had been the one bad thing he'd done, but maybe he ought to do it more, if that's the only thing she accepts.
Through all of it, she holds onto him, and for the life of him he can't imagine why. His attention falls to that, this anchor of their hands. Not the tears that flow freely from her, a mirror to his own quiet streaks. Not the way grief has turned her gaze into a maelstrom, or the shake of her shoulders that move with the effort of saying goodbye like he should be grateful. Just her hands. The place it had all started. Every passing touch to his arm, each lean against his side, all the tousled hairs—they'd all been with those hands. Fingers laced in his as they ran through a bar she gave up for him. Tickles she weaponized when any other kind of contact felt forbidden. Nails tracing warmth against his bare skin on a night that couldn't quite last long enough.
He exhales softly.
"What are you afraid of, Ro?" he asks her quietly, the faintest squeeze pushing around her fingers. When he'd been unwilling to leap for her, he hadn't realized it then, but he'd been scared. Worried that she wouldn't want that from him, anxious about the strain it'd put on Koa, nervous about the hurt it'd cause Caly. Now, though, he has already survived that hurt, that strain, and he has already made that jump. So what, exactly, is she scared of?
"Because, it sounds to me like you're saying, you can't give up on Jack because you love him, even if it's awful. And it sounds like, you could love me just as deeply, but it feels too easy to trust?" And yet, she hasn't let him go, either. She'd rather stretch out this ruin if it'll be their last, and isn't that love in the end? A flick of his eyes back to hers, holding steady even as the wreckage breaks off each of them. "So you're scared of choosing wrong? Of giving up on hurt that could turn good, or good that could turn to hurt?"
Everything she's trying to say to make it all land softer only drags through him that much sharper. She's thought about it too, their life together. Says she'd be happy, that she wants it, but she won't take it. She'd rather the echo of heartache she's dressed up as love, because at least hurting is something familiar. That's the core of it—she's not willing to risk anything for him in the end, and he'd just thrown it all in.
This must be what love is then—one person always willing to give it their all, the other asking for more.
He lets her hold his fingers, but none of the feeling reaches him. She can't hand him warmth while also describing ice. A little bit of life flickers to the surface, like nerves responding to a jolt out of habit, when she says if she chooses them. He tilts his head towards her, searching for some sign amid her gaze that she's still unsure, that there's still room for him, because everything so far has only sounded like you'd be great, but I choose something worse. Here he thought hurting her had been the one bad thing he'd done, but maybe he ought to do it more, if that's the only thing she accepts.
Through all of it, she holds onto him, and for the life of him he can't imagine why. His attention falls to that, this anchor of their hands. Not the tears that flow freely from her, a mirror to his own quiet streaks. Not the way grief has turned her gaze into a maelstrom, or the shake of her shoulders that move with the effort of saying goodbye like he should be grateful. Just her hands. The place it had all started. Every passing touch to his arm, each lean against his side, all the tousled hairs—they'd all been with those hands. Fingers laced in his as they ran through a bar she gave up for him. Tickles she weaponized when any other kind of contact felt forbidden. Nails tracing warmth against his bare skin on a night that couldn't quite last long enough.
He exhales softly.
"What are you afraid of, Ro?" he asks her quietly, the faintest squeeze pushing around her fingers. When he'd been unwilling to leap for her, he hadn't realized it then, but he'd been scared. Worried that she wouldn't want that from him, anxious about the strain it'd put on Koa, nervous about the hurt it'd cause Caly. Now, though, he has already survived that hurt, that strain, and he has already made that jump. So what, exactly, is she scared of?
"Because, it sounds to me like you're saying, you can't give up on Jack because you love him, even if it's awful. And it sounds like, you could love me just as deeply, but it feels too easy to trust?" And yet, she hasn't let him go, either. She'd rather stretch out this ruin if it'll be their last, and isn't that love in the end? A flick of his eyes back to hers, holding steady even as the wreckage breaks off each of them. "So you're scared of choosing wrong? Of giving up on hurt that could turn good, or good that could turn to hurt?"
Kaisel
I'd give up half of forever, just to be with you
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
