[ nothing has prepared her for nikolai's nearness, this closeness that tugs at her, like every piece of her remembers the way they'd fit together. he surrounds her, like this — delicate fingers at her cheekbones, the smell of his aftershave seeming to cling to her skin. it settles in her lungs when she inhales, a deep and shaky drag of breath between her teeth, and lets it fill the empty spaces inside of her. ]
I'm — [ i'm fine, she wants to bite out, sure and steady, if only to give herself a lie she can believe in. it sticks in her throat, unpleasantly lodged there, even as she tries to force it out of herself. alina's eyes clamp shut tightly, ignoring the dampness collecting on the ends of her eyelashes. ] Maybe I want to be alone.
[ she settles for that, instead: the greatest lie she's ever told, and the most obvious, at odds with the desperate way she curls her fingers into the collar of his dress shirt to keep him from believing her, letting the folder and its contents scatter across the dark carpet. it spills out of her in a wavering tremble of words, a paper-thin conviction that's as easily torn as the creased photograph on aleksander's desk. mal knows, better than most, how childishly frightened she is of it — being forgotten, discarded, left behind. never worth the effort, or the attention, or even remembering.
a remnant, maybe, of walking through her life like a ghost, surrounded by faces that never believed a sickly child like alina starkov would make it through another winter. when her eyes open, they stubbornly linger on the crisp edges of his vest, letting her vision swim. ]
Why did you bring me up here? [ the room is too small for everything that exists between them, but that question looms larger than anything else. the intensity in her gaze as it lifts to search his eyes warns him that her decision hinges on his answer. ] Was it just for the folder? For this?
no subject
I'm — [ i'm fine, she wants to bite out, sure and steady, if only to give herself a lie she can believe in. it sticks in her throat, unpleasantly lodged there, even as she tries to force it out of herself. alina's eyes clamp shut tightly, ignoring the dampness collecting on the ends of her eyelashes. ] Maybe I want to be alone.
[ she settles for that, instead: the greatest lie she's ever told, and the most obvious, at odds with the desperate way she curls her fingers into the collar of his dress shirt to keep him from believing her, letting the folder and its contents scatter across the dark carpet. it spills out of her in a wavering tremble of words, a paper-thin conviction that's as easily torn as the creased photograph on aleksander's desk. mal knows, better than most, how childishly frightened she is of it — being forgotten, discarded, left behind. never worth the effort, or the attention, or even remembering.
a remnant, maybe, of walking through her life like a ghost, surrounded by faces that never believed a sickly child like alina starkov would make it through another winter. when her eyes open, they stubbornly linger on the crisp edges of his vest, letting her vision swim. ]
Why did you bring me up here? [ the room is too small for everything that exists between them, but that question looms larger than anything else. the intensity in her gaze as it lifts to search his eyes warns him that her decision hinges on his answer. ] Was it just for the folder? For this?