you don't know that you're living 'til you're carrying scars
Flora’s surprise doesn’t land in her shoulders so much as in her eyes, the bright aqua widening before recognition threads its way in and softens everything at once. "Hey Thalassa," she says through a smile, warmth settling into her tone as she steps a fraction closer.
Her gaze lifts, deliberate and unabashed, to the spill of bleached blonde against horn and rain-darkened skin, and she lets out a quiet, delighted hum as if she’s assessing a daring new paint colour rather than a person. Her own curls, gold but deeper and richer than that pale wash, are tucked back beneath the hood of her jacket, a few damp strands escaping to cling to her temples. "I like the blonde," she says with a grin, tilting her head. "Really makes your eyes pop."
The mention of the Hanged Man draws a small wrinkle across her nose, and she shrugs as if shedding a damp cloak rather than an entire building’s worth of history. Once, she’d claimed the fire as her own to deny the Marin's their spectacle, but that version of events feels exhausting now, too many moving pieces for a lie she no longer needs. "Me too," she says, shaking her head slightly. "The Marins burned it down over some relationship drama." Her fingers splay outward in a theatrical spread, rings flashing pale in the filtered light as rain taps softly against her jacket sleeves.
"I’ve got plans to rebuild it,' she adds, a laugh slipping through, bright but edged with the kind of fatigue that comes from rebuilding more than once. "But I swear to the gods there’s always something new to do instead. But anyway," she says, smile returning in full, "how’ve you been?"
Her gaze lifts, deliberate and unabashed, to the spill of bleached blonde against horn and rain-darkened skin, and she lets out a quiet, delighted hum as if she’s assessing a daring new paint colour rather than a person. Her own curls, gold but deeper and richer than that pale wash, are tucked back beneath the hood of her jacket, a few damp strands escaping to cling to her temples. "I like the blonde," she says with a grin, tilting her head. "Really makes your eyes pop."
The mention of the Hanged Man draws a small wrinkle across her nose, and she shrugs as if shedding a damp cloak rather than an entire building’s worth of history. Once, she’d claimed the fire as her own to deny the Marin's their spectacle, but that version of events feels exhausting now, too many moving pieces for a lie she no longer needs. "Me too," she says, shaking her head slightly. "The Marins burned it down over some relationship drama." Her fingers splay outward in a theatrical spread, rings flashing pale in the filtered light as rain taps softly against her jacket sleeves.
"I’ve got plans to rebuild it,' she adds, a laugh slipping through, bright but edged with the kind of fatigue that comes from rebuilding more than once. "But I swear to the gods there’s always something new to do instead. But anyway," she says, smile returning in full, "how’ve you been?"
you're either falling in love or you're falling apart
