01-27-2020, 03:52 PM
she fell for the idea of him
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
and ideas were a dangerous thing to love
She had expected an outburst of some kind, and she had steeled herself for it. She waited for the insults to be hurled at her, because even if Ashhal had never made a move to hurt her, he made up for it in scathing remarks. She expects to hear the usual — that she was nothing, that of course he would want no part in any of their children’s lives because he didn’t want to actually be tied to her, or anyone, in that manner. That it wasn’t his fault that she always came back and didn’t push him away.
It starts similar to what she had been expecting, and with a turn of her head and a tight jaw she waits for him to be done. She can feel the tension and the anger that radiates from him, and even though her pulse quickens, she does not retaliate.
But what he says, right before he draws away, makes her inhale sharply. She looks back at him, confused at first, but that confusion quickly fades into hurt— for him, because she had never known he felt that way, and for herself, because she doesn’t understand what she has done to give him this impression. “Why wouldn’t I want you to be her father?”
She wants to go to him, but the little girl struggling to stand keeps her anchored where she’s at. All she can do is watch him in this dimly lit cave, searching his face in the dark, grasping for whatever it was that she had so obviously missed. “Ashhal,” she whispers, and she doesn’t think his name has ever felt so broken on her tongue. “I never meant to keep any of our children from you. I have always wanted them to meet you, it’s just…” you always leave, is what she thinks but doesn’t say, and she lets her voice trail off.
Her chest feels tight, and her throat aches with the promise of tears but she never lets them reach her eyes. She just keeps watching him with that same bruised expression, desperately searching for what it is that she needed to say to make it better. “I’m sorry,” is all she manages, unshed tears quivering in the syllables of her apology. “You’re not a poor option, and of course I want you. You can’t truly believe that after all this time that you mean nothing to me.”
There is a short silence that she lets build between them, her attention briefly taken from him as the white filly finally manages to stand. She lowers her head to rest her muzzle against the newborn’s side in an attempt to steady her, and then looks back to him and says quietly, “She’s yours, and will always be yours, whether you’re around or not.” She hesitates, and the conflict that reflects in her eyes is not because of what she says next, but because of the rejection that she thinks will follow it. “I wish you would stay, though.”
It starts similar to what she had been expecting, and with a turn of her head and a tight jaw she waits for him to be done. She can feel the tension and the anger that radiates from him, and even though her pulse quickens, she does not retaliate.
But what he says, right before he draws away, makes her inhale sharply. She looks back at him, confused at first, but that confusion quickly fades into hurt— for him, because she had never known he felt that way, and for herself, because she doesn’t understand what she has done to give him this impression. “Why wouldn’t I want you to be her father?”
She wants to go to him, but the little girl struggling to stand keeps her anchored where she’s at. All she can do is watch him in this dimly lit cave, searching his face in the dark, grasping for whatever it was that she had so obviously missed. “Ashhal,” she whispers, and she doesn’t think his name has ever felt so broken on her tongue. “I never meant to keep any of our children from you. I have always wanted them to meet you, it’s just…” you always leave, is what she thinks but doesn’t say, and she lets her voice trail off.
Her chest feels tight, and her throat aches with the promise of tears but she never lets them reach her eyes. She just keeps watching him with that same bruised expression, desperately searching for what it is that she needed to say to make it better. “I’m sorry,” is all she manages, unshed tears quivering in the syllables of her apology. “You’re not a poor option, and of course I want you. You can’t truly believe that after all this time that you mean nothing to me.”
There is a short silence that she lets build between them, her attention briefly taken from him as the white filly finally manages to stand. She lowers her head to rest her muzzle against the newborn’s side in an attempt to steady her, and then looks back to him and says quietly, “She’s yours, and will always be yours, whether you’re around or not.” She hesitates, and the conflict that reflects in her eyes is not because of what she says next, but because of the rejection that she thinks will follow it. “I wish you would stay, though.”
ryatah
Phone post at work, ur welcome