Theea
I look up at him with a shine in my eye, even as I sniffle and rub at the sore tip of my nose. “Well, it worked,” I tell him with sincerity. “It’s made me smile for the first time in what feels like days.”
My gaze drifts to Aria, sprawled like a queen among my pillows, purring hard enough to rattle the floorboards. "Maybe I should think about a pet—someone soft and nosy to keep me company when I’m cooped up like this, pretending I’m not miserable."
My smile thins. I look back at the foxes gleaming in the firelight, bundle my sweater tighter around myself against a shiver I pretend not to notice. “I just still haven’t gotten used to living alone,” I admit, quieter. “Thought I would by now. It’s been since last Flowerbirth since I struck out.”
I give a soft, barely-there sigh, thumb brushing over the fabric at my sleeves. “I’ve been trying to figure it out." My voice is probably too quiet, but the words feel just heavy enough that I don't want to lift them. "But something just keeps feeling… empty, somewhere.” My eyes drop. “Dad was worried about me not living with Mom anymore. I keep wondering if I should just give up and move back in.”
The thought makes my chest twist. "But I love my little house. I love being able to say I’m independent. I just… suck at being alone."
The words hang too heavy, and I suddenly realize how much I’ve said. I clamp my mouth shut, glance over at him with a sheepish half-shrug. “Sorry. Rambling.” Again.
My gaze drifts to Aria, sprawled like a queen among my pillows, purring hard enough to rattle the floorboards. "Maybe I should think about a pet—someone soft and nosy to keep me company when I’m cooped up like this, pretending I’m not miserable."
My smile thins. I look back at the foxes gleaming in the firelight, bundle my sweater tighter around myself against a shiver I pretend not to notice. “I just still haven’t gotten used to living alone,” I admit, quieter. “Thought I would by now. It’s been since last Flowerbirth since I struck out.”
I give a soft, barely-there sigh, thumb brushing over the fabric at my sleeves. “I’ve been trying to figure it out." My voice is probably too quiet, but the words feel just heavy enough that I don't want to lift them. "But something just keeps feeling… empty, somewhere.” My eyes drop. “Dad was worried about me not living with Mom anymore. I keep wondering if I should just give up and move back in.”
The thought makes my chest twist. "But I love my little house. I love being able to say I’m independent. I just… suck at being alone."
The words hang too heavy, and I suddenly realize how much I’ve said. I clamp my mouth shut, glance over at him with a sheepish half-shrug. “Sorry. Rambling.” Again.
delusional optimism is the only way out
