is this the end of all the endings?
Flora claps both hands over her mouth in a desperate effort to smother the high, breathy laughter that erupts from her chest, but it’s no use. Even half-muted, her giggles pour out in hiccupping bursts of glee, bubbling over like a shaken bottle of champagne. The slap may have stung, sure, but Kaisel’s reaction is what truly sends her spiralling: the way he lurches, gasps, stutters, spins; every inch of it fuel to the fire in her lungs and the lightness in her chest, like her heart’s suddenly afloat, too giddy and golden to stay tethered to her ribs.
But when he abruptly veers away from the bathroom, her laughter falters. She freezes mid-step, invisible and confused, brows knitting as she watches him detour into the kitchen of all places. Thinking he meant to get himself a shower snack, she watches puzzled as he peeks toward the cupboards like maybe he's grabbing a celebratory cookie for enduring her.
That is, until he whirls with a bag of flour.
A scandalized shriek of laughter bursts from her throat as she realises—far too late—what’s coming. White plumes erupt like a blizzard of vengeance, snowing chaos across the kitchen in a puffed-up tantrum of powder and glee. Counters vanish beneath a ghostly film. Cabinets bloom in chalky fingerprints. The hallway’s a winter storm and she's caught on the outskirts of it.
Kaisel will not doubt notice the soft scuffs of footprints dancing in reverse across the floor, outlined perfectly in contrast to the settling flour. And in the air, suspended like the memory of her body, the faintest absence; a Flora-shaped hole in the flurry, where every dust mote that dares to touch her simply vanishes.
"Me what?" she calls, taunting and bright, pressing herself flat against the hallway wall like some stealthy jungle predator. She stays perfectly still, confident the floor will give him no clues so long as she isn't actively stepping in the flour, confident that her invisibility is flawless. Unaware of the ghost she’s become, painted in negative space, outlined by chaos, and about to be caught.
But when he abruptly veers away from the bathroom, her laughter falters. She freezes mid-step, invisible and confused, brows knitting as she watches him detour into the kitchen of all places. Thinking he meant to get himself a shower snack, she watches puzzled as he peeks toward the cupboards like maybe he's grabbing a celebratory cookie for enduring her.
That is, until he whirls with a bag of flour.
A scandalized shriek of laughter bursts from her throat as she realises—far too late—what’s coming. White plumes erupt like a blizzard of vengeance, snowing chaos across the kitchen in a puffed-up tantrum of powder and glee. Counters vanish beneath a ghostly film. Cabinets bloom in chalky fingerprints. The hallway’s a winter storm and she's caught on the outskirts of it.
Kaisel will not doubt notice the soft scuffs of footprints dancing in reverse across the floor, outlined perfectly in contrast to the settling flour. And in the air, suspended like the memory of her body, the faintest absence; a Flora-shaped hole in the flurry, where every dust mote that dares to touch her simply vanishes.
"Me what?" she calls, taunting and bright, pressing herself flat against the hallway wall like some stealthy jungle predator. She stays perfectly still, confident the floor will give him no clues so long as she isn't actively stepping in the flour, confident that her invisibility is flawless. Unaware of the ghost she’s become, painted in negative space, outlined by chaos, and about to be caught.
my broken bones are mending
