04-16-2023, 01:25 PM
— i would rather learn what it feels like to burn than feel nothing at all —
He says her name, and she cannot decide which is worse—the way he says it, as if the shape itself feels like fire on his tongue, or the idea of never hearing him say it at all.
He stares at her with those familiar storm-colored eyes, and for once she is almost grateful to be engulfed in flames, so that he cannot see the way she wants to shrink away from his scrutiny. She can only assume that he is seeking out everything that he despises about her, reaffirming for himself all the reasons that she is a lost cause that, somehow, continues to find him. And as she stands there beneath his stare, trying not to wilt beneath it, she finds herself once again wondering why she feels like she has to prove him wrong, when he is completely right.
Everytime she sees him she tries to fight for something that never existed, and that never will exist. She is scorched earth, a victim of her own fire and destruction, and she cannot blame him for not wanting to go up in flames with her.
But, selfishly, she wished that he would.
She is glad that he cannot read her expression or hear her thoughts; glad that he will never know that the absolutely most vicious, selfish part of her would turn him to ash along with her if it meant she didn’t have to be alone. She loathes herself for even thinking such a thing. It makes her want to lash out at him, and his icy stare and cold tone and flat words causes a fresh surge of flames to lick up her legs, her smoldering stare sharpening for a moment before she dampens it.
She doesn’t want to fight with him.
She doesn’t want to anger him and send him disappearing back to wherever it is he goes so quickly, and so, for once, she does not rise to his bait. “I prefer the term ‘well-done’, but thank you,” she says, a faint smile hidden somewhere in the words. Her tone is neutral, but the sudden sorrow that swells in her eyes is unmistakable, and for once there is no room for anger. For as long as her fire exists, so will the distance between them; she wonders how many times she will have to repeatedly accept that before she finally understands.
Now it is her turn to study him, taking in his own changes more closely even though to see them feels like a fist around her heart. She wonders if fire against ice hurts more than fire against flesh, or if the cold is so numbing he wouldn’t feel anything at all. Another lose-lose situation; one where she either hurts him, or where he feels absolutely nothing, and what a useless love that would be. “Can you control it?” she asks, her head nodding to vaguely suggest that she is referring to the cold that surrounds him, fighting against the envy she feels blooming at the idea that he could, as her own fire continues to flicker uncontrollably across her skin.
He stares at her with those familiar storm-colored eyes, and for once she is almost grateful to be engulfed in flames, so that he cannot see the way she wants to shrink away from his scrutiny. She can only assume that he is seeking out everything that he despises about her, reaffirming for himself all the reasons that she is a lost cause that, somehow, continues to find him. And as she stands there beneath his stare, trying not to wilt beneath it, she finds herself once again wondering why she feels like she has to prove him wrong, when he is completely right.
Everytime she sees him she tries to fight for something that never existed, and that never will exist. She is scorched earth, a victim of her own fire and destruction, and she cannot blame him for not wanting to go up in flames with her.
But, selfishly, she wished that he would.
She is glad that he cannot read her expression or hear her thoughts; glad that he will never know that the absolutely most vicious, selfish part of her would turn him to ash along with her if it meant she didn’t have to be alone. She loathes herself for even thinking such a thing. It makes her want to lash out at him, and his icy stare and cold tone and flat words causes a fresh surge of flames to lick up her legs, her smoldering stare sharpening for a moment before she dampens it.
She doesn’t want to fight with him.
She doesn’t want to anger him and send him disappearing back to wherever it is he goes so quickly, and so, for once, she does not rise to his bait. “I prefer the term ‘well-done’, but thank you,” she says, a faint smile hidden somewhere in the words. Her tone is neutral, but the sudden sorrow that swells in her eyes is unmistakable, and for once there is no room for anger. For as long as her fire exists, so will the distance between them; she wonders how many times she will have to repeatedly accept that before she finally understands.
Now it is her turn to study him, taking in his own changes more closely even though to see them feels like a fist around her heart. She wonders if fire against ice hurts more than fire against flesh, or if the cold is so numbing he wouldn’t feel anything at all. Another lose-lose situation; one where she either hurts him, or where he feels absolutely nothing, and what a useless love that would be. “Can you control it?” she asks, her head nodding to vaguely suggest that she is referring to the cold that surrounds him, fighting against the envy she feels blooming at the idea that he could, as her own fire continues to flicker uncontrollably across her skin.
Brinly
