your breath is poison; your breath is wine
(you think your dreams are the same as mine)
“I think that is a beautiful time of day,” she says with earnest, because it is true. She had always thought that the sky looked stunning during the in-between hours—the time before and after night. There was something truly wistful during that time, as if it was suspended between realities. She liked to imagine that anything could happen in those moments—as if she could somehow shake herself lose of her own truths to grasp at the ideals that she so wanted. She liked to think during those moments that she could fly, that she could fall in love, that she could have adventures of her own. All impossibilities.
She is so caught up in her thoughts that she startles at his touch—badly. Jerking to the side, she stumbles on a rock and falls to her knees. Without prompting, she makes a harsh sound, her breath ripping from her lungs. The pain is both familiar and instant, the flesh on her legs ripping at the sudden impact with the ground. She closes her eyes as she stays in her fallen position for a moment, burning bright with both embarrassment and physical pain.
Finally, she sighs and then gathers herself to stand.
Adaline forces herself to look him in the eye, giving a weak smile. “I’m sorry.” She tries not to look at the blood that she knows is slowly dripping down her legs, making her fragile skin even more delicate. “I sometimes scare easily.” It would be but one more barely noticeable scar—just one more mark on a body that so easily told a story of her injuries. “I heal quickly though,” she lies, because she is used to the ripped skin and the bruises.
The last thing she needed was for him to pity her.