RORY
"That doesn't mean that it was her," she said, the voice of reason, the voice of life, and everything he had tried to tell himself during Long Night but now he knew why people died in the dark. Now he knew why they opened their doors, unlocked their windows—because hope and love are a foolish, potent, wicked combination, a drug that speaks to every reckless cell and deadens every bit of reason. It's the stuff that makes your heart ache and your imagination run and like Rory you ask yourself 'what if' and hope always fucking wins—He wanted to be sensible. He wanted to say I know, to admit what a fool he was (to admit that his heart was raw and bruised and alive and full of love), to say that he was sorry for being so close to being such an idiot—
But he couldn't speak because his throat was constricted, a painful lump lodged in the back of his mouth, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes to slowly dry and freeze-burn upon his cheeks.
It would've been easier if he had known she was dead.
Then he couldn't have believed...
"No," he answered, muffled, defeated, his bare hands were cold and his fingers trembled as he held the folds of her clothes in them like a lifeline. He sniffled gracelessly, rubbing his face against the shirt of his upper arm, grappling with his grief like a wild animal: part of him wanted to give in to it, to scream and yell and cry, the other tried to return to practicality. Logic. Calm. "She said.." that it had been too long, but she was here now he laughed, but it was mirthless and sad, defeated and hopeless, "She said that it was different this year. Calmer. I don't..."
He felt the lock and handle under his hands still, ghost imprints. "Ella was so confused why I wouldn't open the door for her," he said at last,
and felt something wither and die inside his heart.
as if you were on fire from within,
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
the moon lives in the lining of your skin.
