“I will always find you.”
She had walked away then, because what else could she have done?
Guilt consumed her like magic did, once. It filled her veins and sent her muscles into spasms. It was a web of a different kind of silk, and it held her fast. He did not conjure images of sunsets, or rivers, or hazels. He did not make her think ‘forever’, but he did make her think of things that she should not have.
Because here lies the ugly truth;
She became an ugly truth; because she needs. Because she does not want to be alone, because she’s been alone already and watched her bones turn into dust. Because she cannot exist in a space surrounded by a single mirrored reflection – her own.
“Spyndle,” He says, while she lingers under the cover of leaf and branch; a familiar voice, a familiar body – one she has touched even if she should not have.
She remembers the way he felt; warm, alive. She remembers that he held her like he did not mean to let her go, and how parts of her wished that he wouldn’t. She’s forgotten what her name sounds like on anyone else’s tongue, and it lights a fire underneath her skin that she’d forgotten the burn of.
“Killdare,” she answers, because it’s all that she can do. She should stay quiet. She should let him pass her, buried in the branches, but she’s never made the choices that she should.
She should do so many things, but there’s only one thing that she wants.
Well, two.
spyndle
you are the prettiest thing that I will ever know