It takes a leap of faith

Amalia

---

stop thinking so much

---

What would you say? It's another difficult question, one she has thought of a thousand times yet never found an answer to. What would she say to her mother, if she could? Everything and nothing; there is too much already unsaid to try and form it into narrative. She would tell her she loves her, misses her, aches and agonizes every night. She would tell she about her triumphs, her trials, her pitfalls, her love.

She would ask for her forgiveness, and offer it in turn.

"That I love her," she answers honestly, simply. "Even though we didn't always get along. And that I wish I'd been strong enough to realize that before it was too late."

Amalia glances over at his chuckle, drawn in once again by the tenor of it, the rich and boyish nature behind the stoic mask. Meeting his eyes, she feels herself flush, the unsaid things beneath blazing attention crawling deliciously beneath her skin. "As will I." A prayer, a pledge: I will be there, too. I am not afraid of the darkness, if you are in it.

Still crafting the careful leaves, Amalia looks over the pie. "Now we pour it in and bake it. Is your oven warm?" She pours the mix into the pan, adding delicately carved foliage to the top. "We'll know it's done by the smell, and if it's golden"

---

you're breaking your own heart

---