wear the moon like a halo

Maeve

A sound of frustration rises in her throat and she looks up at him from her spot on the ground where she's already holding open another sandbag for him. "It's not pity. I don't pity you, Jata. I don't feel sorry for you. Even though there is plenty to feel sorry for. I just care." Her voice raises slightly and she's feeling ridiculous again, but she presses forward. "I get it. You don't share because you don't want your words getting twisted. You don't want people to pity you. Your trust is limited and I fucking get it. I do." Because while her life isn't like his, she still knows what pity looks like. It's the same look people give her when they hear what she does for a living. No, her problems aren't like his. She's not at risk of losing a family or love or anything like that. She doesn't have anything to lose because she never had anything to begin with.

Maeve takes a breath, shaking her head as she looks down at her hands where they curl at the opening of the bag. She feels small and insignificant. Like her words hold no weight and she's not sure they do. "I know it's probably stupid to care. That you don't need me to care and probably don't even want me to. I can't even really tell you why I do. I just do. Maybe because you're the first person I've been really honest with in a long time. I don't know." She's rambling. She knows it. Except she can't make the words stop coming. Maeve swallows thickly, hating how stupidly vulnerable she feels, "At this point I think I'd just appreciate if you told me to fuck off or not... At least then I'd know what to do."

These violent delights
Have violent ends