she's so small, and the night-lights of Paris illuminate her so well. this past week, they, the poor saps under the influence of akuma, have been striking out at night more often. it's not like he minds, no, because it's much easier to sneak from his house than it is to find an excuse during school hours, but it's also disrupting what sleep he could get.
it's not like he minds, no, because the only person on his mind is fleshed out from the city with him, and he doesn't have to only dream of her, like reaching for the stars and knowing you couldn't grasp them.
she's just like one, he muses, watching her under his lashes. small, and bright, and beautiful, and unobtainable.
but she doesn't need to be in a group just to paint a pretty picture. he's sure, oh-so-very sure that she could handle this city without him. for how long? he couldn't guess, because whenever he goes to look at her, he's distracted by the pinch in her eyebrows or the pretty creases around her eyes when she smiles real big.
tonight, he can see the tired in her. he reads her much easier nowadays, and he's not-so-sure as to why, but he likes it, because she's always a hundred-million emotions when they're together, and a hundred-million miles away when they're not.
and it's not like he minds, no, because he knows when he goes to bed that night, he'll be thinking of a hundred-million ways to tell her, i love you.