Wren
I need the clouds to cover me
Wren sat at the small wrought-iron table by the window, her fingers curled too tightly around a chipped ceramic mug gone lukewarm. Outside, the afternoon drifted past in slow, indifferent currents. She checked the clock again. The minute hand had barely moved.
She caught herself counting breaths, heartbeats, the steady tap of her foot against the floor, and stopped, swallowing hard. She leaned back in her chair and tugged her sleeves over her knuckles, fingers worrying the hem. Her gaze flicked to the door each time it opened, lifting too quickly, only to fall again just as fast. Each time she imagined meeting his eyes — her eyes — again.
When the bell chimed once more, she straightened, hazel eyes lifting again.
She caught herself counting breaths, heartbeats, the steady tap of her foot against the floor, and stopped, swallowing hard. She leaned back in her chair and tugged her sleeves over her knuckles, fingers worrying the hem. Her gaze flicked to the door each time it opened, lifting too quickly, only to fall again just as fast. Each time she imagined meeting his eyes — her eyes — again.
When the bell chimed once more, she straightened, hazel eyes lifting again.
Pulling them down, surround me
