[private] to the edge of all we've ever known; thomas

[thomas]

and I'm the kind of love it hurts to look at, but once I was enough to make you try
now, I'm underneath the rubble, trying not to feel the trouble.

His world is so small.
Insulated, even.
His world is his mother and his sister. His lovely, soft sister.

He does not know that there is magic in the world that he could never understand. He does not know that sometimes things go wrong, even if you don’t want them to. He has no concept of things not working as they should. So, when she lifts her fine head and tells him that she cannot hear, he thinks that he has spoken too softly. He takes a careful step toward her and opens his mouth to repeat himself, louder, but she stops him short.

His mother said the same thing, didn’t she? Isn’t that how he learned that a single misstep could put fissure cracks in the glass. Even a glancing blow could break him apart. He swallows thickly and glances down at his own legs, the refracted light makes his eyes ache and he shifts his focus back to her face.

He does not know what she means. He does not know how to identify himself as naive, doesn’t even know what it means, but she smiles and so does he. It is a kind of relieved thing, his heart buoyed by her appraisal of him. She thinks him beautiful and it does not occur to him to be embarrassed. His mind has not been muddied enough to think that only girls can be beautiful. Heat pools in his cheeks and the grin remains.

He shifts his focus back to her face and tilts his own fine head. “What do you mean?” he asks and takes another step toward her. “How do you break them?” He does not know why he trusts her not to break him. Perhaps because she’d called him beautiful. Perhaps because he is naive, whether he knows it or not.

THOMAS

— and you don't care for me enough to cry —