flora
There is something in the way her mother stills, in the way grief reshapes itself into something quieter and more dangerous, that Flora recognizes with a familiarity that feels almost inherited rather than learned. It is the same instinct that has lived in her own chest for as long as she can remember, the refusal to let something end simply because it has broken, the stubborn, bleeding insistence that if she just holds it together tightly enough—if she presses hard enough, gives enough, bends enough—it might still be salvaged. She feels it now like a second pulse beneath her ribs, that relentless drive to make something work even when it has already begun to unravel, and it floods her with a kind of desperate, fragile hope that feels just as much like pain.
Her fingers curl again at Hotaru’s waist, not restraining this time but grounding, as though she is anchoring them both to the possibility that has just been spoken aloud. "Right?" she breathes, the word quick and bright despite the tear-trace still glistening on her cheeks, her head nodding almost immediately as though affirmation might solidify the idea into something real. "He’s making this choice without being able to feel it," she continues, the logic forming as she speaks it, each piece slotting into place with the kind of certainty that comes from wanting something to be true badly enough that it begins to resemble truth. Her eyes search her mother’s face again, hopeful and intent, as if she can already see the path forward taking shape between them.
She nods again, more firmly this time, but then falters, the motion catching halfway. Her brows knit together and she shakes her head, the contradiction tugging visibly at her expression. "No, how could he?" she says, the question soft but edged with genuine disbelief, her voice catching slightly as she tries to reconcile the idea. "Who would want their heart to stay dead like that?" The words hang there, not quite accusation and not quite confusion, but something rawer, something that refuses to accept that anyone could willingly choose absence over feeling, even pain.
Her fingers curl again at Hotaru’s waist, not restraining this time but grounding, as though she is anchoring them both to the possibility that has just been spoken aloud. "Right?" she breathes, the word quick and bright despite the tear-trace still glistening on her cheeks, her head nodding almost immediately as though affirmation might solidify the idea into something real. "He’s making this choice without being able to feel it," she continues, the logic forming as she speaks it, each piece slotting into place with the kind of certainty that comes from wanting something to be true badly enough that it begins to resemble truth. Her eyes search her mother’s face again, hopeful and intent, as if she can already see the path forward taking shape between them.
She nods again, more firmly this time, but then falters, the motion catching halfway. Her brows knit together and she shakes her head, the contradiction tugging visibly at her expression. "No, how could he?" she says, the question soft but edged with genuine disbelief, her voice catching slightly as she tries to reconcile the idea. "Who would want their heart to stay dead like that?" The words hang there, not quite accusation and not quite confusion, but something rawer, something that refuses to accept that anyone could willingly choose absence over feeling, even pain.
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
