she’s too bright. it hurts, looking at her. like staring straight into the sun and hoping it won’t incinerate you where you stand—
a foolish thought. a wasted dream. he can mourn and repent all he wants and he’ll never get anywhere.
her chest rises and falls gently as she breathes, and he looks at her; looks at the peacefulness of her slumbering face, and he wonders.
her back faces him, a shadow silhouetted against the darker velvet of night—she’s so still that he wouldn’t have noticed her if he weren’t looking.
“traveller,” he says. he sees her head turn, just slightly.
but she doesn’t otherwise acknowledge him.
he steps forward, reaching towards the window. moonlight streams through the glass pane, and it turns his hand silver—transient and ethereal, a ghost walking among the living.
a description he finds a little more apt than he’d like.
he crawls into her bed at night, and she welcomes it—turns over, half-asleep, and wraps him into her arms, soft and drowsy and vulnerable.
he tucks himself under her chin and breathes her in. a reminder that this is his reality, now.
it’s so very different from how things were a few months ago.
he would never have imagined himself doing this. willingly showing his weaknesses, especially not after all the betrayals he’s suffered.
but the traveller has an uncanny knack for getting under his skin.
he’s existed for centuries, watching the ebb and flow of time. there’s nothing constant in this world; the words that flow from their wretched mouths are so malleable as to mean nothing.
three betrayals he’s suffered. three betrayals that etch their marks into his skin and rattle about in the hollow cavity of his chest.
he wonders what it’s like, to bleed. to fear. to die. can a puppet die?
