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“Too long,” A quiet confession, an admittance of your terror and reluctance to tell him of things you didn’t—don’t—know just how to handle yourself. It is no excuse, you know, breathing against him as he caves to your touch, as if nothing has changed, pulled close to his chest in an embrace that alights a passion within your heart that is his, his alone. It is in this embrace that everything else seems inconsequential, too far away to ever dream of causing harm, in his embrace, cradled so close, so close, his beating heart against your skin, his breaths quiet in your ears, that you feel whole.
‘Our… child,’
Your eyes flicker open at the sound of his voice, the chill within them sending a shiver down your spine, snuffing out any warmth to your very core. There is a distinctive want to defend the child within you, your own teeth grinding together in annoyance at the way he had spat it, black tongue coiling within your mouth. It is all forgotten as something shifts, his body growing taught against you, the sense of tenderness that had grown between the two of you ripped away, leaving your heart bare, confusion swelling beneath the surface. ‘I…can’t—I’m—sorry, Enna, I—can’t.’ Brows furrow as you try to lift your head from him, his body pulling away from you abruptly, leaving you to stumble forwards in to the emptiness. Your skin pricks at the sudden iciness in the air, something you hadn’t noticed until now, standing alone, his face as impassive as a mountain’s, staring down at you as if you are nothing. A thousand questions a torrent of noise in your mind, your heart quivering, refusing to allow the meaning of his words—something you barely have a grasp on, do not want to have a grasp on—to permeate its frailness. “I … I don’t understand.”
‘It will be better off without me; you’ll…be better off without me,’
You can only stare at him as your world seemingly stops. It is in the way that you cannot feel your heartbeat, the air siphoning down your throat; cannot hear the ocean, the sound of life that abounds in the forest surrounding you. You blink slowly, only registering the movement as seconds of darkness followed by too much light as the world returns in to focus, his face the first, the last, the only thing you want to see. Inwardly, you reach for him, wanting desperately to fall in to him, seek the sanctuary that you have always found in his arms, beg for him to take it back, to love you; to love you, the way that you have always loved him. But you simply stand, unable to feel your limbs, unable to trust yourself to even make it to him, as close (too, too far from you) as he stands.
Even as his lips move, form words, they are nothing but silence to you. It is only that smile that reaches something within you, shakes you from the nothingness that had enveloped you, your chest heaving, suddenly wild with an ache that makes it hard to breathe, your cheeks wet and cold with tears that you hadn’t realized you were crying against the mist that clings to your body. It is a feral anger that registers first, and it is this anger that you try to cling to, desperate to feel something.
“You promised—” For too long you had remained silent, but It is only a ghost of defiance that speaks, that memory, that frail, fragile, crumbling memory, a desperate grasp at a weakening defense, a very last chance. You had never meant it as a weapon, never thought you would feel the need to use it as a weapon in all of your childish, stupid recollections, dreams, of your sandstone man. Never once had you thought that it would be him to leave your side, betray you. “You promised. Does that mean nothing to you? Do I mean nothing to you?”
It is caught between a choke and a snarl, the words rushed, hushed, wilting and broken. All too soon you realize the answer, the shards of your heart digging deeper, your stomach twisting in knots. It is with this revelation that you want to say more, want to hurt him, want to make him regret, but it is somehow still the farthest thing from your mind, from the shattered pieces of your heart. Even though he is capable, fine with, hurting you so, it is him, only him, that you do not want to see suffer. “You… you are wrong.” And so, you do your best to gather what is left of yourself, look one last time to him, unable to even see his face, in a silent goodbye, a small, defeated smile flashing on your lips. “I only hope you never realize it yourself.” You turn pointedly on tiny heels, rushing to get away, to find someplace away from him, from prying eyes, to fall apart.
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if there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
