It’s not dying I’m afraid of
He takes her hand and doesn’t let go as he talks, and she just listens. There’s nothing on her face but compassion, the kind reserved only for him. There’s something understanding in there, the sort of love that isn’t pity but simply companionship in the pain. Because sometimes that’s all you need. His hand trembles, and this whole day finally makes sense. He doesn’t choose to hunt unless she begs him, he doesn’t choose to fight unless she throws the first punch. But today, he needed to feel that raw pain, that release, that comes with blood and bruises.
It is how she lives with it all.
She doesn’t say anything. Not right away, anyway. Honestly, what is there to say? That she’s sorry? That it’s all right? What hollow words. What little good they would do. Instead she lets go of his hand, standing on tiptoes in the snow to reach up and wrap him in a hug, pulling him tight to her. He’s so much taller it would be comical, in any other scenario. ”I’d rather him than you,” she says bluntly, words slightly muffled against his chest. Because in the end, that was what mattered. That was the truth. ”Us against the world, remember?”
It is how she lives with it all.
She doesn’t say anything. Not right away, anyway. Honestly, what is there to say? That she’s sorry? That it’s all right? What hollow words. What little good they would do. Instead she lets go of his hand, standing on tiptoes in the snow to reach up and wrap him in a hug, pulling him tight to her. He’s so much taller it would be comical, in any other scenario. ”I’d rather him than you,” she says bluntly, words slightly muffled against his chest. Because in the end, that was what mattered. That was the truth. ”Us against the world, remember?”
weaver
it’s dying without ever having lived
