03-14-2021, 04:44 PM
i've been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night
and now i see daylight
and now i see daylight
She has never met anyone like him. She typically steered clear of those that made her heart beat too hard, the ones that made her nerves feel like they are needles against her skin. The cool way that he regards her inspires a faint feeling of fear to crawl up her spine, because she hates the way she cannot read his face. Even with the silver orb that casts light across their faces there is still nothing she can discern from his stern, almost stone-like features, and he hardly blinks when she comments on the blood on his shoulder.
His eyes are such an enchanting green, though, that she forgets her apprehension. She finds herself staring at them, fixing her dark brown eyes to the emerald green of his, searching for any kind of break in the stone that he is portraying. She thinks, for the briefest of moments, that they seem brighter, but set against that unyielding face of his she does not let herself believe it.
Her name sounds different spoken from his mouth like it is wrapped in thunder. It chases the chill he had created with a strange kind of heat, one that flushes inside of her chest. She doesn’t know what it means—this strange tug-of-war, where she is wary of him but all at once fascinated.
She says nothing and only keeps her ruby-lined face pointed to his, contemplating his question. The thoughtful silence stretches for what she is sure is an awkward amount of time (for her, at least—hyper-aware of the pounding in her ears, of the breath that suddenly feels tight in her lungs), before finally answering, “Everything is always too loud for me. Even when I’m alone. But being alone at least makes it feel….quieter.” Quieter, because it is just her own thoughts and the dead, without the jarring voices of all the other conversations of the common areas.
He has not given her his name yet, and while she so badly wants to ask for it she does not, instead asking softly, “Are you usually alone?”
His eyes are such an enchanting green, though, that she forgets her apprehension. She finds herself staring at them, fixing her dark brown eyes to the emerald green of his, searching for any kind of break in the stone that he is portraying. She thinks, for the briefest of moments, that they seem brighter, but set against that unyielding face of his she does not let herself believe it.
Her name sounds different spoken from his mouth like it is wrapped in thunder. It chases the chill he had created with a strange kind of heat, one that flushes inside of her chest. She doesn’t know what it means—this strange tug-of-war, where she is wary of him but all at once fascinated.
She says nothing and only keeps her ruby-lined face pointed to his, contemplating his question. The thoughtful silence stretches for what she is sure is an awkward amount of time (for her, at least—hyper-aware of the pounding in her ears, of the breath that suddenly feels tight in her lungs), before finally answering, “Everything is always too loud for me. Even when I’m alone. But being alone at least makes it feel….quieter.” Quieter, because it is just her own thoughts and the dead, without the jarring voices of all the other conversations of the common areas.
He has not given her his name yet, and while she so badly wants to ask for it she does not, instead asking softly, “Are you usually alone?”
narya
