DESPOINA
He knows the strings to pull, the way to tug at the threads of her heart, and without her consent something like hope begins to blossom in her chest. She struggles against the feeling of it, the way that it unravels within her, the way that she grows warmth beneath his gaze, but she cannot deny that she blooms under the spotlight of his attention—that he sees her. Like she is something special. Something to be cherished.
Not something to be promptly abandoned upon first sight.
Something to be kept.
(How desperately she wants to be something worthy of being kept.)
He asks why she won’t come near and she says nothing in return, her tongue thick and warm, the words stuck to the roof of her mouth. Because I am not worthy. Because my legs are broken. Because I could not imagine getting that close to the sun. These are the thoughts that swirl in the back of her mind—the thoughts that stick and grind, that cause her heart to stutter in her chest, leaving her eyes wide.
As he gets closer, she takes an unconscious step backward but doesn’t run. She remains rooted, her black eyes taking him in, studying him, and then closing when he makes contact with her cheek.
“Yes,” she finally says, quiet and breathy.
I would never leave if you asked, she wants to scream—wants to lay it down at his feet, but instead she just looks to the ground, frowning and biting her lip. She remembers what it was like to be driven away, when she wasn’t given the choice to stay, and her heart clenches in her chest.
Please let me stay.
I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do