tell me Atlas what is heavier?
the world or its peoples hearts?
the world or its peoples hearts?
Whatever goes in behind her cosmic eyes he is not privy to. There is so little to read when human traits and micro expressions are so clearly lacking in her new body. No need to blink, to breathe. She is a blank canvas, and Harper is left staring, wishing he had better words. Something more to offer her than the measly, paltry words he is forced to give her for lack of anything better.
As Maea straightens to face him fully, Harper takes a slow breath through his nose. Petrichor and damp earth fill his senses. It seems as if the world doesn’t exist beyond the pitiful shelter of the tree’s branches above them. They stand on opposite sides of a line neither of them drew, and yet their hands reach forth regardless. Both of them incapable of being firmly placed inside the boxes made for their measurements.
Whatever reaction she hopes to find does not come. Harper takes a moment to parse through her confession, to let it sink in entirely. Moments pass. The rain continues to fall. His eyes never leave here, baring himself to her in turn so that she may read his every minute reaction and verify for herself that there is no judgment. “Did it help?” As if she’d never confessed anything at all. Wanting only to know what had driven her, and if Maea had found any measure of peace in her actions. Or whatever it was she had sought in those moments. He not her judge, nor even her jury. Harper’s hands are too deeply stained to begin to hold her to standards he cannot achieve himself.
As Maea straightens to face him fully, Harper takes a slow breath through his nose. Petrichor and damp earth fill his senses. It seems as if the world doesn’t exist beyond the pitiful shelter of the tree’s branches above them. They stand on opposite sides of a line neither of them drew, and yet their hands reach forth regardless. Both of them incapable of being firmly placed inside the boxes made for their measurements.
Whatever reaction she hopes to find does not come. Harper takes a moment to parse through her confession, to let it sink in entirely. Moments pass. The rain continues to fall. His eyes never leave here, baring himself to her in turn so that she may read his every minute reaction and verify for herself that there is no judgment. “Did it help?” As if she’d never confessed anything at all. Wanting only to know what had driven her, and if Maea had found any measure of peace in her actions. Or whatever it was she had sought in those moments. He not her judge, nor even her jury. Harper’s hands are too deeply stained to begin to hold her to standards he cannot achieve himself.
Harper
