It’s not dying I’m afraid of
Maybe that was half their problem, the fact that they always seemed to underestimate the other. It was not that she did it on purpose, but simply because he’d always be a little boy to her. Even though he was far from that now, she couldn’t help but see the five-year-old version of him. In her head he was still a kid, still the boy who shifted and flew out from behind closed doors at them. She had a hard time seeing the man he had become.
He was grown up. She hated it. Gods, how she hated it.
Still, she also wanted him to live. Wanted him to explore, to learn who he was, to get to be who he wanted to be. They’d both had childhood ripped away from them far too soon, but maybe they’d finally been granted some time. Some time to be themselves, or at the very least, to figure it out.
She rolls her eyes at him as he doesn’t follow her train of thought. ”Because it doesn’t have to be pastime now. That’s the point. You can actually do something with it, if you want. If not that, then what else interests you? What do you want to explore?” He really is dense, sometimes.
He was grown up. She hated it. Gods, how she hated it.
Still, she also wanted him to live. Wanted him to explore, to learn who he was, to get to be who he wanted to be. They’d both had childhood ripped away from them far too soon, but maybe they’d finally been granted some time. Some time to be themselves, or at the very least, to figure it out.
She rolls her eyes at him as he doesn’t follow her train of thought. ”Because it doesn’t have to be pastime now. That’s the point. You can actually do something with it, if you want. If not that, then what else interests you? What do you want to explore?” He really is dense, sometimes.
weaver
it’s dying without ever having lived
