[ They walk a delicate balance around happiness. Love is there, like a book left unread on the shelf, its presence acknowledged but never looked at. Some days, it's enough just to look at him and see that reassurance in his gaze. But still, still, it hurts.
It's been a little while since she's given up arguing her case. She doesn't have anything to argue with. Where he doesn't have much experience with romance, she has none at all, and there's no fighting with what's printed on her birth certificate. So she doesn't reach for him as much, doesn't try to push the point (doesn't smile as much as she used to, doesn't talk as much, either). No, you can't lose something you've never had, but the ache persists, like the slow fading of a photo. The image is still discernible (she loves him, and she will even as her legs lengthen and her frame fills in), but the colors and effulgence are fading from that first bright and effulgent moment of realization, from the moment she'd crawled into his bed in the middle of the night with a confession on her lips (I love you, Eamonn).
For a long moment he does nothing but look at her, and she does nothing but look back. ]
Okay, [ she answers, the word nearly just a sigh. (It's tiring; she doesn't know if it's supposed to be. And again, the point is proved. She doesn't know. Too young, too inexperienced, always something just out of reach. She doesn't recall ever having been so simultaneously frustrated by and resigned to a fact.) ]
no subject
It's been a little while since she's given up arguing her case. She doesn't have anything to argue with. Where he doesn't have much experience with romance, she has none at all, and there's no fighting with what's printed on her birth certificate. So she doesn't reach for him as much, doesn't try to push the point (doesn't smile as much as she used to, doesn't talk as much, either). No, you can't lose something you've never had, but the ache persists, like the slow fading of a photo. The image is still discernible (she loves him, and she will even as her legs lengthen and her frame fills in), but the colors and effulgence are fading from that first bright and effulgent moment of realization, from the moment she'd crawled into his bed in the middle of the night with a confession on her lips (I love you, Eamonn).
For a long moment he does nothing but look at her, and she does nothing but look back. ]
Okay, [ she answers, the word nearly just a sigh. (It's tiring; she doesn't know if it's supposed to be. And again, the point is proved. She doesn't know. Too young, too inexperienced, always something just out of reach. She doesn't recall ever having been so simultaneously frustrated by and resigned to a fact.) ]