“Shouldn’t have been chasing ghosts.” You murmur quietly, offering him an uncertain smile, afraid of indulging him in every secret kept so close to your heart, of all the unspoken things between the two of you and of that shattering into pieces, into ruin, into memories too jagged to hold. "And I've told you," you sigh as you roll your eyes, your smile shifting, deepening, trying to bury beneath it your fears, your hurt, the parts of your heart home only to your little lion consumed with worry, as much as it has ever been. "You're here. Doesn't that count for at least something?"

It is but a bird's wing on the window, illuminated by that little spark of hope that you clutch, that inkling of desperation that, somehow, you will make him see. You cannot help but wonder if that will ever be enough—if your absolution, your love, your belief, will ever be enough to bleed any kind of light into the darkness that he seems determined to find, to be. Tell me, he says, and something in your heart shifts painfully once again, reminding you of the truths about him that you always try to forget.

For all of your efforts you cannot hide that pain, the sour twist of your face as he unknowingly answers (no),

for what must be the thousandth time (no),

the questions you will never be brave enough, never be strong enough, to ask him

(no, you will never be enough).

Your head turns from him first, kaleidoscope eyes following moments later as they lift along the softly glowing wall, tracing the delicate lines carved within the semi-transparent pane of glass. And you are silent, only watching as the lava tumbles down in thick curls, remembering the awe that you had felt the first time you had ever seen it, sure that it was some magic or another, and bitterly reflecting on the emptiness that eats away at you now, that has eaten away at you from the moment you had set eyes on him. You breathe deeply, swallowing against the lump in your throat, the sullen ache within your chest.

“I don’t know.”

It's a skin you sink in to with difficulty, that feigned innocence, ignorance; the half-truth (because couldn't you tell him all of those things, the face that has been stapled to the back of your eyelids, carved in to your heart, your memory?) acidic on your tongue. “It was just a man.” The word is spit, as if he does not deserve to be called anything other than the scum that he is, taking advantage of those weaker than him. And maybe he doesn't, but there is just a speck of guilt within you for that rage that you still feel for what he has done, all the feelings and terrible thoughts that he has dragged up from the deepest parts of you, for the sickening sense of satisfaction, knowing you had hurt him for everything he had tried to take from you.

"And even if I did know, what would that mean?" You ask suddenly, quiet despite the anger brimming in your chest. "If I could tell you a name, show you a face, give you something more than just a shadow to pin your anger on, what would it do? Allow you to teach him something he does not care to learn?" Your voice rises along with that dark and feverish heat, along with the tangling of emotions and your own doubts of yourself, of his intentions and all of the things he thinks he wants to do, unaware or uncaring of what it could do to him, of what it could make him become—if not now, then the threat of that someday. Your confusion turns to guarded criticism as you scoff, shaking your head only enough to send ripples of movement through your knotted hair. "What would make it any different, any less wrong if you were to hurt him like he has me?"

It is not a single man that you question him about, but the others that you have sheltered despite their harm, protected because it is the only thing you could ever hope to live with. Beneath your self-righteousness, your poorly constructed attempts at self-preservation, there is also the need to understand him even if you do not agree, to know all of the reasons why underneath his convictions, just how he intends to not lose himself to them if that need ever simply becomes desire. For all your belief in him, it is something that you do not know, do not trust, that he would be able to differentiate.

"And what if something happens to you?" Somewhere along the way all of your ire has melted into sinking despair and the words, meant to be anything but as fragile, as feeble as you feel, are barely said above a choking sob. "What if... and because of me—" but you cannot finish it, instead pressing your lips together tightly, blinking away the stinging of tears, too tired, your body too exhausted, to cry anymore.

"Please, don't ask me to put you in that position, please."

The words are a soft plea as you turn to him briefly, only now attempting to rise on your slender, shaking legs. The clumsy effort is met with a spinning room, eyelashes brushing your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the new darkness to stop moving. "I'm still right here," you move towards him until your body presses in to him finally, tiredly, relaxing against the familiar heat of his own, if only for moments. "See?" You breathe sharply, a smile ghosting along your face, your head racing with all the repercussions of your weaknesses, anger, your (senseless) need to protect him as if he is nothing but a helpless child, incapable of making his own decisions.

"Can't that be enough?"

(Just say yes.)

enna & erebos

for you, just you