[ You don't know me, he wants to say, but he knows already that that's a lie. She's seen into his heart, clawed her way into his chest with God's grace. She knows who he is. What he doesn't understand is why she still chooses to love him.
He's a broken, ugly thing. A dragon reduced to ash, not to rise again as the phoenix might; a pianist with broken hands. (I could never play God's score. I was not meant to.)
Still, she takes his name, calls him by what is now hers. He doesn't flinch away from her touch, but his brow pinches as if he might rage or simply cry. ]
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He's a broken, ugly thing. A dragon reduced to ash, not to rise again as the phoenix might; a pianist with broken hands. (I could never play God's score. I was not meant to.)
Still, she takes his name, calls him by what is now hers. He doesn't flinch away from her touch, but his brow pinches as if he might rage or simply cry. ]
Why— how can you think that?