If am lost, I am lost on purpose.
She does not know shyness. Does not know how to feel shame. So she has no ability to hold herself back when others might. Instead, she barrels forward, launching herself into his side and pressing into him, feeling the warmth of him rush over her. There are tears on her cheek, hot and steady, but she doesn’t know how to feel embarrassed of those either. They just are—as the sky, as the moon, as the infinite sun.
“Mesec,” she repeats, because it is the only word that comes to her. It is the only thing that her mouth knows how to form and she repeats it, again, and again. She presses it into the side of his slick neck, not caring that the darkness creeps forward around them. Not caring about the sound of otherworldly things that bump and crawl—the fear that should surely take root in her heart and spread.
But all she feels is gladness.
All she feels is a deep-rooted relief.
His words finally register and she lets out a watery laugh as she finally pulls away from him, hesitant to create too much distance lest it be a dream—just a marvelous figment of her imagination. But he does not disappear and so she greedily studies the planes of his face. The way that his horn grows crooked and the silver creeps up his nose. All the things she has not yet been given the chance to learn as she might.
“I will take every moment,” she confesses, unabashed.
@[Mesec]