02-15-2021, 12:37 PM
chasmata
It is difficult to quantify the ways that she has changed.
Even just since their conversation began.
She had gone from embarrassed and apologetic to bold and curious.
She wonders if this is the natural progression of things, if friendship (are they friends?) has a way of changing you, or if there is something specific about him that has helped to sway her toward this new boldness.
(The skin continues to fester where the spark had grazed past her mouth, though she is too distracted to notice at the moment. She does not know much about her natural aversion to fire yet, though there is a good chance she will have to learn the hard way. Perhaps this means that the sparks are actually harmless, but singe her skin only because she has no natural protection against fire.)
But she shakes her head at his apology. “I wouldn’t ask you to apologize for being yourself,” she says, smiling still. How could she? She’s glad to see him smiling again and she’d sink closer still to siphon off some more of his warmth if she were not becoming increasingly aware of the stinging of her skin where the spark had touched her.
“Where are you from, Laurelin?” she asks, when what she means to ask is, what are the chances that our paths might have crossed twice?
Even just since their conversation began.
She had gone from embarrassed and apologetic to bold and curious.
She wonders if this is the natural progression of things, if friendship (are they friends?) has a way of changing you, or if there is something specific about him that has helped to sway her toward this new boldness.
(The skin continues to fester where the spark had grazed past her mouth, though she is too distracted to notice at the moment. She does not know much about her natural aversion to fire yet, though there is a good chance she will have to learn the hard way. Perhaps this means that the sparks are actually harmless, but singe her skin only because she has no natural protection against fire.)
But she shakes her head at his apology. “I wouldn’t ask you to apologize for being yourself,” she says, smiling still. How could she? She’s glad to see him smiling again and she’d sink closer still to siphon off some more of his warmth if she were not becoming increasingly aware of the stinging of her skin where the spark had touched her.
“Where are you from, Laurelin?” she asks, when what she means to ask is, what are the chances that our paths might have crossed twice?
the moonlight, baby, shows you what’s real
but there ain’t language for the things i feel
but there ain’t language for the things i feel
@[Laurelin]