Amalia
she was afraid of heights
Some of us can't. And what is there to say in response to that, what can she possibly do except shrug, a silent acceptance of a painful fact that is true, even when they wish it were not. Maybe they can't, but she has to believe it's possible. It's all she has to hang onto, the potential for a better future, that one day if she tries hard enough she will make amends for her countless mistakes.
It is his next statement, though, that makes her frown, pulling her hand off his knee and recoiling back into herself. Maybe a kinder person would say something reassuring now; maybe a friend would argue that he is more than that, better, that he has a future just like her. But Amalia's kindness has been spent, and the pair of them are not friends- simply two people looking into shattered mirrors, seeing splintered and half-baked reflections and aching for the peace they cannot find.
Standing up suddenly, Amalia shrugs, still rubbing unhappily at her now bare wrist. She has gotten what she wanted: a fight, an escape, a break from reality, and at the end of the day her only reward is deeper pain and loss. "You are a Launceleyn," she agrees simply, looking down at Loren a moment before turning her dark and tired glance away. "Whatever that means." Because frankly, his name has very little weight in Caido, and if he wants to cling to its ancient meanings from a place far away, well, that's on him.
Wordlessly Amalia turns away, planning to gather her things and walk out unless he has something more to say. She is tired, and has her own mental breakdown to finish, and more missing scars to be unable to find.
It is his next statement, though, that makes her frown, pulling her hand off his knee and recoiling back into herself. Maybe a kinder person would say something reassuring now; maybe a friend would argue that he is more than that, better, that he has a future just like her. But Amalia's kindness has been spent, and the pair of them are not friends- simply two people looking into shattered mirrors, seeing splintered and half-baked reflections and aching for the peace they cannot find.
Standing up suddenly, Amalia shrugs, still rubbing unhappily at her now bare wrist. She has gotten what she wanted: a fight, an escape, a break from reality, and at the end of the day her only reward is deeper pain and loss. "You are a Launceleyn," she agrees simply, looking down at Loren a moment before turning her dark and tired glance away. "Whatever that means." Because frankly, his name has very little weight in Caido, and if he wants to cling to its ancient meanings from a place far away, well, that's on him.
Wordlessly Amalia turns away, planning to gather her things and walk out unless he has something more to say. She is tired, and has her own mental breakdown to finish, and more missing scars to be unable to find.
but she was much more afraid
of never flying
