AMALIA
you're staring at the sky
watching stars collide
Amalia is grateful for the low light, because Adam's statement makes her color suddenly crimson, a blush spreading across her cheeks. "Ah, I... I do have someone now, actually." She isn't sure what else to say, but the bashful pleasure in her voice is enough, a strong proclamation of how much this budding romance means. "The bakery is too small for two people, though, and I haven't lived at home since... since my grandmother died." Shrugging, she tries to shake away the pang of bitter sadness, the absence of the older woman still felt acutely within her soul. She misses the nights of family dinners, warm candlelight and laughter filling their small space. She misses when her mother and grandmother would sing, teaching her words to a hundred songs, their differences briefly put aside, replaced by love for her.watching stars collide
She misses belonging somewhere.
Amalia lets Adam chatter as they walk, contributing when appropriate, quiet encouragement for him to go on. The girl is a purveyor of stories, and she welcomes all the strands of his: they distract her from the emptiness which gnaws and coils in her stomach, threatening to swallow her whole. When at last they reach the bakery Amalia carefully opens the door. "The bed's upstairs," she cautions, a bit of a challenge in her voice. "Think you can manage? Otherwise I could grab some blankets and set them up down here." It is warm, at least, in the nooks by the oven: Amalia had slept there at times as a child, though she had been much smaller than the tall, lanky man.
