Divinity
She's avoiding me.
That girl laughing with Brittany and completely avoiding me. She glances at me from her end of the cafeteria, as though to check if I've looked away. When I catch her in her glimpse, she turns away just as quickly as the moment we shared. It's not just now but at Cheerio practice, advanced English, wherever I go, she's leaving.
But she kissed me back.
She kissed me with her full lips, like... she wanted me as much as I wanted her. A touch, that contact between two people, it doesn't lie. There is no way to edit your touch the way you can edit your words. It is the most basic language and her kiss said she wanted me in that moment, too.
It was like a dream, the kind that made you want to hold on to the fleeting wisps of sleep. Where you roll over and try to slip back into that perfect dream world. Eyes closed, I felt her lips pressing back into mine.
And then the moment slipped away and I woke up.
Santana pulled away, furrowed her eyes with confusion, dressed silently, and left. The taste of spearmint lingered on my lips, painfully cold at the loss of contact.
And ever since then, she's been avoiding me.
A sea of chattering kids separate us but I can't hear anything, see anything. She may as well have been Moses and these irrelevant people could have been the Red Sea; everything parted for her. I rake my fork against my still-full plate absent-mindedly, hardly noticing it until I actually pushed mashed potatoes too hard and the gravy spilled off the tray. Great.
I can't quite understand her. She wants to be my friend. She doesn't want to be my friend. She kisses me back. She snaps at me. She avoids me. It's like the bipolar rollercoaster of Santana Lopez, not all fun and games.
"Are you listening to me?" Noah demands in an annoyed tone.
"Huh?"
He narrows his eyes with irritation and suspicion. "You're not even listening, are you," he accuses.
Guilty."Um," I try to think about what he just said. Whatever he was talking about did not register even the slightest. I look back at him, trying to muster some semi-decent answer about whatever he was talking about.
But when I glance at him, his eyes move in and out of focus. Noah isn't looking at me, he's looking right through me. His jaw opens to barely part his lips, giving him a slightly dazed look. I turn and glance over my shoulder. Maybe there's something there.There's nothing and when I look back at him...
It hits me, too.
It's suffocating. Not literally but the emotions weigh so heavily, it feels like they are slowly crushing my bones, as easily as foil is crumpled. I'm drowning in every bad thought I've ever had, about me, about anyone. The darkness is a sea that I can't swim in.
Every doubt, failure, resentment, sadness, jealousy floods into my mind, stripping me of everything I am until I am simply bones.
And I try to think of something good. My thoughts grasp for Judy. For Puck. For Emma. For cheeseburgers and chocolate, maybe french fries, but only if they're from Jack-in-the-Box. Like the curly fries. Honestly, for anything and anyone desperately to pull me out of this crushing sea of darkness and if that's going to greasy curly fries, then so be it. Just let me have a lifeline, save me.
But nothing saves me. Every good thought slips away from me like sand. Something tethers to my ankle and drags me down to a darkness even darker than night and greater than my mind can fathom.
Please save me.
When nothing reaches out, no cool hand pulling from the heat of this hell that's entirely mine. I am Atlantis, an entire city of emotions slowly sinking and drowning in a sea, too much to be saved.
So I let the darkness take over.
"Quinn," a voice reaches out. Something grips my shoulder and shakes me. "Quinn, hey, Quinn."
Please, someone save me. And like someone heard my plea, the feeling slowly lifts. Oxygen rushes into my lungs, my chest expanding with the air I can suddenly inhale. I can't see anything but my fingers grip onto a cool surface. My fingers slip through holes in the surface. Cafeteria table. I'm in the cafeteria, I remind myself.
I blink myself awake, my vision slowly focusing on the hand waving in front of me. A large, beefy hand. Noah is looking back at me, trying to get my attention. Students are milling around us, pushing to throw their trash away or heading out the door. The seat where Santana was sitting is empty now, a crumpled milk carton and a plate of wilting lettuce left behind as the only evidence.
I look back at my hands, still gripping the cafeteria table. Exhaustion settles into my bones, that feeling of having lived a full life and wanting to finally reach end. Even my teeth hurt from being so tired.
"Did you feel it, too," Noah lowers his voice, barely audible over the din of the impatient students. His face looks almost gaunt, suddenly looking much older than he was.
I nod. He must have felt it, too, because he looks completely frazzled, like someone jolted him awake just as he was falling asleep. I probably look just as bewildered, since a look of concern crosses his face as he studies me.
"We'll talk about it later," I say as I get up and sling my bag over my shoulder. I reach out to him with my mind, meeting his consciousness. "Field?"
Noah nods and replies silently to any outside ears. "Field." We must have looked strange, standing there, nodding and walking off but it seems to be the safer way of communication when we're surrounded by everyone else. No one else knows about our meetings and we keep it that. I'm sure having wings and talking about purpose qualifies you as a grade-A freak.
He shuffles away cautiously, still shaking off the heavy feelings of whatever just happened.
I love this field. It's so open that sometimes, it hurts to look at the horizon, its straight line punctured by the swaying silhouette of grass kissed by a breeze. Small flowers, untouched by any human hands or pesticides or whatever junk they put into plants these days, speckle the green, colors puncturing the green field. It's warm here, like a little oasis hidden away in nature. The sun reaches warm rays of light, warming my face. And it smells fresh, like new soil or that almost-minty scent of grass. The grass feels cool and soft under my unfurled wings, stretched behind me, a soft cushion of feathers as my bed.
Honestly, I'd move out here if it weren't so far from school and had a shower.
For now, I settle for a good nap on this grass, waiting for Noah to get here.
We meet here almost every weekend. Today is an exception since that freak accident of crushing emotions is not normal. I'm positive no one else felt it because only Noah and I sported bewilderment on our faces like Ray Ban glasses.
"How do you always here before me?" Noah's sentences are interrupted by his panting.
"You try being a Cheerio. You'll be doing handstand push-ups and running like a fat kid runs after the last Twinkie," I answer without bothering to open my eyes.
"I'd sprint for the last Twinkie, since they don't make 'em anymore," Noah jokes, bending and catching his breath. "It's practically a collectible now."
I give him a few moments. Let him breathe before we launch into a conversation. My hands feel clammy just recollecting the sliver of hell I endured during lunch hour. That heaviness, that melancholy, the absolute, inescapable despair.
Noah plops down next to me, a flurry of grey feathers flying into the air, his own wings a soft and darker grey. Every time I see them, I'm convinced they're darker and darker. Even now, he has soft charcoal grey. It's almost lovely, a soothing shade of slate grey, like the color of steam that rises from a hot coffee.
"It was crushing you, too, wasn't it?" Noah's question comes quietly, like a secret. He brushes his mind against mine. For a moment, I feel the rush of emotions he felt when he delved into the same darkness at lunch. Insecurities, grief, anger, hopelessness, disappointment and the strongest, jealousy. I quickly pull back away from his mind, feeling embarrassed that I know so much about his feelings and conscious that he must have a glimmer of my innermost feelings. Damn it, Santana. There was no way he didn't see that I was thinking about Santana, especially since she's all that's been on my mind lately.
He pulls back as quickly, aware of the mental intrusion he made by brushing against mine. Noah clears his throat uncomfortably, his ears prickled with embarrassment. "What do you think it was?"
"I don't know," I muse, looking at orange-streaked sky. If I weren't so distracted, I would probably watch the clouds aimlessly float on. "I'm going to ask Judy about it, I think. It was so overwhelming and..."
"You should ask about your wings, too," Noah suggests quietly. He tries to deliver his suggestion as delicately as possible; he's aware of how self-conscious I felt about my wings. "It's not just one, you know, and it's not even pink."
He's right. Noah first pointed out how my wings were slowly changing into a fluff of pastel pink. The pink spread from the bottom and worked its way up until every feather was touched carefully by a light tone of pink. It was almost beautiful for a bit, like someone washed it with a light watercolor.
Slowly, one by one, they changed into a deeper, fuller shade of red. Not all of them were red, but the feathers touched fullest by whatever was happening was a deep shade, a rich blood-red, almost burgundy. The color spread from the top, like someone had poured wine down my feathers, slowly soaking it in its rich shades of red and burgundy. A gradient of wine red slowly spreading downwards. A few feathers at the tips managed to stay white but I suspect that won't last. And I can't say it's not worrisome.
Noah reached out a hand, like he wanted to touch the feathers that looked like rubies, but drew back.
I get up to my feet and find my way to the rocky boulders near the edge of the field. Maybe twenty feet off the ground, I climb my way to the peak of the boulders, spreading my wings, eyes closed. Wind whistles through my outstretched fingers.
Inhale, exhale, my thoughts rush like the wind, along with the wind, skimming the wind.
And I hurl myself, the breeze catching me by the wings. I can't help but laugh out loud.
There's no feeling like flying. Every problem feels insignificant when you throw it to the sky, the ground pulling away from me and dragging all my problems away with it.
I hear two powerful beats of feathers. Noah appears next to me, his joy written across his face. Right now, right here, we just have the wind.
We're going to be okay.
"It's unusual," Judy responds after some time. "I've never heard of anyone's wings turning red. I'm going to have to go to the Network's Council for this. Quinn, be cautious of what's happening."
"Okay," I reply, slightly unnerved that she can't give me answers. If she has to go to the Network's Council of Elders for it, this is serious. Usually, she can give me all the answers I need to hear. "And what about the emotional attack? I mean, I can't keep crumpling down at school. I look like I have some life-threatening disease, Judy," I complain. The name-calling is only being held off because I'm a Cheerio, I swear.
"Quinn, I need you to be really careful. Those aren't just emotional attacks," Judy says her words slowly, mulling over how she's going to tell me whatever is about to change my life. I grip my phone and press myself into the sofa cushion, bracing myself for whatever and mentally compiling a list of what it could be. Divine dinosaurs stampeding through the world. The Holy puppet master drinking too much wine and spill it on our wings. Wings being dipped in evil Kool-Aid. "That's how you know the Fallen are coming."
The Fallen. You're freakin' kidding me. "The Fallen?! Why are they hanging around Lima?" I sound incredulous. "It's not a Mecca of holiness here! I mean, kids are vicious here. If anything, these people are the Fallen. I'm pretty sure my Cheerio coach is the devil," I consider it seriously for a moment. Coach Sylvester definitely has the makings of a Fallen Angel. But no, she's too ordinary, too human.
"I can't say why the Fallen are coming to you. Between that and your wings, something is wrong here, something is happening," Judy responds, sounding unsure for the first time.
"Not helping." And to think my problems ended with the Advanced English exam next week.
"Don't be snarky," Judy scolds. Her nagging is instantly warm and familiar. I wish I were back in California with her, where I had friends and a sort-of family. When I didn't live with a house full of emptiness and echoes. The sun is always warmly glowing; even when you were inside, you knew you only needed to step outside to feel that kind of natural warmth that glowed. Even the people were at least eight notches friendlier than the people in Lima, Ohio. I practically bribe the delivery boy to like me with generous tips. In return, he gives an uncertain smile and boxes of Chinese take-out.
"Work on your Divinity," Judy suggests.
"Why?" What good is Nirvana going to do, I want to ask but I bite my tongue.
"I know you think you've accomplished Divinity, Q, but that's not how it works," Judy explains patiently. Somehow, in the midst of dealing with my teenager angst, she manages to soothe my anxieties. Her tone is quiet and patient, a constant source of stability. I smile into the phone, listening to her soothing voice as she tries to explain. "You know the way that the Fallen made you felt, it was like being dragged down, right? Heavy feelings, heavy thoughts, heavy everything?"
Yep, definitely the Fallen. "All too well."
"Divinity is like flight. It's the weightlessness when you fly, it's that peace you feel when you're in the sky," Judy speaks in metaphors most days. This is pretty specific for her. "Darkness is the absence of light, right?"
"Mmhmm."
"Divinity is the light that comes into that space. The reason the Fallen avoid it is because it burns so brightly, they don't have the capacity to be lifted into the light."
"What does it look like when I've gone into Divinity?" I've kind of glowed a little bit. That could have just been blonde hair meeting the sun.
"You'll know."
Gee, thanks for the step-by-step manual. I sigh. This was only a smidgen more than I already knew but I guess it's better than nothing. "Thanks, Judy. Will you let me know if you learn anything about my wings?"
"Of course," she pauses for a moment. "I miss you here. It's not the same."
Don't cry, Quinn, please don't cry. The back of my eyes hurt as I try to hold back the tears. I never realized how homesick I felt until she said those words. It was too much, missing someone who missed you back. "I miss you, too."
"Can someone tell me what E. E. Cummings is talking about when he says, 'Here is the deepest secret nobody knows'? Anyone?" Mr. Briggs holds his book in one hand as he observes his choice of prey. This is my favorite poem and I want to answer but I doubt it will do me any good to raise my hand willingly. His eyes land on a very bored Santana Lopez, her eyes cast out the window. "Miss Lopez?"
"Like any poem, it can be interpreted in a lot of ways," she replies smartly, not even turning away from the window to look at Mr. Briggs. Her voice is composed and even as she continues, "It's different, depending on your perspective, so it can vary from person to person."
"Then what do you think it means?"
She pauses, considering his question. It doesn't harm her reputation that Santana Lopez, head Cheerio and hottest girl at school, is also brilliant. "To me, it means that you're holding someone else close to your heart. Your essence starts with this person's heart, the place from which roots settle deeply and branches reach outwardly. It's about love."
I'm watching her, like everyone in the class, but she looks at me as she concludes, "And it's about how no one knows about that."
"Very good, Miss Lopez. As she…" Mr. Briggs' voice fades away as Santana and I hold a gaze. It's the longest that we've shared contact since we've kissed, even wordless contact. I want to reach out my consciousness but that tends to earn a frightened response from most humans. She tilts her chin up slightly, as though to challenge me.
And I don't.
When the bell releases us from class, I go to my locker, putting away my books for the day. It's always a relief to be done with school, not because it's hard but because keeping up these walls to not feel every high school student's emotions and anxieties is difficult. I have enough of my own feelings to manage.
I sigh, pulling the last of my books from my bag and into my locker.
"Don't you dare." Santana's voice cuts through my sigh, laced with anger. I turn to face her, her glare burning.
"What? I didn't—"
"Not you," she interrupts me before I can deny having done anything. "Him."
My ears prickle at the anger in her tone, the serious threat in her words. I look behind me. A jock, one of the faceless mass in this school, is holding a cup of… slushie? I feel confused. Why is Santana not letting some kid drink his slushie?
She takes a menacing step forward, and then another. Santana takes a step around me, standing between me and the jock. Her voice comes out calmly and all the more threatening as she speaks, completely controlling the situation, "Quinn is now a Cheerio. You never slushie a Cheerio. Understood?"
Oh. He was going to throw that at me. I cringe, thinking about the unwelcome drip of ice down my clothes. That high-fructose corn syrup would stain straight into my skin.
He looks like a scared deer, nodding his head frantically before scurrying away.
I sigh, relieved that I won't be suffering a slushie attack. Santana turns around to look at me, her gaze so intense that I lean against my locker.
Her eyes study my face and I study her. The students mill around us, as usual, but when her dark eyes lock onto mine, I feel like the world is silent. Somehow, nothing else matters. No Fallen, no red wings, no purpose. Just me and Santana Lopez.
"You have me in your corner now, okay?" Santana asks me, no trace of malice anywhere. Her voice isn't honeyed or over-friendly; she just sounds genuine, a raspy tone of honesty. She clears her throat uncomfortably, probably realizing how nice she sounded, and tries to redeem herself, "I mean, you're a Cheerio now and no one messes with us."
"Thanks, Santana," I'm overwhelmed momentarily, trying not to be touched by her promise. Granted, I've moved to a town all by myself and have no substantial relationships or social contacts; so yeah, maybe I'm a little emotional because someone shows an inkling of kindness.
Santana smiles, just so slightly that a small dimple caves in her cheek. She narrows her eyes slightly, like she's making a decision. It must not have taken long to decide because she gives a slight nod, "Let's go for a drive, Fabray."
Her hair whooshes around her as she turns.
I would have gone with her even if she asked me to go murder a puppy with her.
"Where, though?" I roll over to bend my elbow and prop my head, looking at her. Thank goodness her car is squeaky clean or sitting on top of it would have made our uniforms more black than red. Coach Sylvester would probably combust into flames if she saw that. Santana laughed a little, like she was trying to hold it back. I ask again, "Honestly, if you had to hide a murder weapon, where in the world would you put it? And don't you dare say under the floorboards because that's so cliché that it would be the first place I'd look."
Santana's eyes sparkle as she laughs loudly, "Okay, honestly. Honestly?"
I nod.
She whispers, "I'd bury it in my walls." The huskiness of that whisper sends chills down my spine. She laughs openly at my clearly-scared response.
I shiver, "Okay, change of topic! I can't do scary things this long." I lie back down, facing the sky again.
The sun feels warm on our faces. Her car was sitting in the parking lot all day, gathering enough heat to warm our backsides as we lie flat on the roof of her car, watching the sun slowly retreat.
I love wasting time with you, I think, glancing over at her.
When she said, "Let's go for a drive," I have to admit it was almost intimidating. Santana had put me in her car and drove. At first, I felt anxious about where she was taking me. I mean, that is a legitimate concern in Los Angeles. Rule number one: you drive yourself to places if you don't want to get kidnapped. But that anxiety quickly faded away when Santana hummed in a care-free way that made my lips perk into a smile. She drummed her fingers against the wheel as she drove, beating to the sound of her hum.
I had let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding until then. My shoulders relaxed, tension over all these side problems washing away with the sound of her voice. I felt like a winding music box, this empty box that needed her to sing, hum, drum to feel like I was working. Like I was all wound up until she started singing and suddenly, I was slowly unwinding, every breath held escaping with the sound of her voice.
"You can be a one-man band," I had joked, watching her slowly form a melody all on her own. "Give Taylor Swift a run for her money. Just remember your Cheerios when you're accepting your Grammy."
She had grinned. Yes, point: Fabray. If every word that came out of my lips could make her smile like that, and I mean really smile, I'd talk until my voice gave out.
It turned out she was driving with direction, not aimlessly wandering around like I seem to always be doing when I get in the car. Santana didn't tell me where we were going and I was perfectly content to let her drive. She slowly pulled her car to a lakeside and got out. Before I knew it, she was climbing onto the rooftop, holding out her hand to pull me up. I, less than gracefully, clawed myself onto the rooftop, enjoying the sunlight.
The lake sparkled, a medley of colors casted on its surface. It looked like broken shards of glass, the way it glistened. It was quiet in that way only a non-metropolitan city could be. I soak it all in, hungry for that warmth, the light. It's the angel in me, but methinks there is not enough light to feed an angel's hunger for light.
I look over at Santana, who is leaning back, her hair spilling down her shoulders like black ink. She kicked off her shoes, her bare feet crossed at the ankles. For once, she's not sporting a look of defiance and anger.
"You look happy," I admit to her, thinking more out loud than anything, really.
She smiles without looking at me, her eyes cast somewhere in the sky. "I am," she replies, bringing her hands behind her head as she laid on top of the car. "This is where I come to get out of Lima, out of my head. Sometimes, you just need an open sky to figure out things and not care about the petty things. You know?"
You never fail to surprise me, I think. Santana Lopez, the Yoda of Ohio.
The sun takes its time to set, giving us a chance to launch into conversation. She laughs, I laugh. Our conversation flows easily as the water beside us, our words mixing like all the molecules in the air. I tell her about Los Angeles, random stories from when I was young. She hands back her own stories, delicate as a peach, like she would bruise if I didn't handle her stories carefully.
I am careful not to touch her, unsure of how much of her mind would pour into mine or vice versa. I like this better, Santana handing me her life story (though she acts she's describing random moments in her life) willingly and not because our minds are mingling.
When the sun finally hides under the horizon, a dark sky and moon climbing to take over, we crawled back into the car. As soon as I sit, I can feel (and hear) the familiar hum of my phone vibrating somewhere.
"It's here," Santana laughs as she watches me frantically search for it before it stops ringing. She points to my seat, which I pry apart the cushion to find my phone buried there. I grin at her as I answer, "Hello?"
"Where are you," Noah sounds peeved.
"I'm with Santana." As soon as I say her name, I feel a wave of jealousy flood through the phone, as intimately as my own emotions. "Holy shit, calm down," I say without thinking, responding to his emotions before he can even say anything. Santana quirks an eyebrow as she places her hands on the wheel.
"Whatever," Noah hangs up without replying. I'm still shaking from the force of his jealousy, completely oblivious to the fact that Santana had already started the car and started to pull onto the highway. I hate it when he acts like a child so suddenly; it throws me off.
"You okay?" She asks me in a husky voice, the roughness of it sending chills across my skin. I find it soothing that Santana can sense my discomfort as she keeps her eyes on the road, never taking it off once. She's so sure in her movements, effortlessly precise. I hate admitting it but it gives me a chance to look at her without her looking at me back. And her posture, the casual glances to me, her hair spilling over her shoulders, it feels as familiar as the LA skyline to me, like I've known the landscape of Santana Lopez as well as my home.
"Yeah, Noah is just being weird," I reply, facing her and trying to shake off my irritation with Noah. I can't help but smile when she smirks like that. "What?"
"You call him Noah," she chuckles, bringing one hand to her mouth. "I don't know anyone who knows him as Noah." She pauses. "Are you guys a thing?"
The mere thought of dating Noah is too much; he's like a friend or brother. Sharing angeldom with him is close enough. "No, don't even joke about that," I laugh, arms clutching around my waist.
She's trying not to grin, I can tell, but a slight dimple in her cheeks gives her away. Time passes quickly enough that we're at my house sooner than I wish.
"So," she says as she pulls into my driveway.
"So." I clear my throat and smile at her. "Thanks for today, I needed the break."
She nods, a small but genuine smile on her lips. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Her words are more of a question than a statement. She swiped her dry lips against my cheek, gone before they were actually there.
I nod and step out of the car, holding onto my bag and jacket. As she drives away, I feel something pull me, like a string tied to my insides is attached to the back of her bumper, taking something of mine away with her as she left. I was unraveling like the yarn from a sweater and Santana was holding the loose end.
I don't even have to look for Noah because I know where he goes when he's thinking. It was probably his mistake to share that field with me. I know that I'm not exactly BFF of the year but his tantrum was completely uncalled for. By the time I get there, he's on his back staring at the sky. Well, more like scowling.
"Okay, what is your deal," I call out before he even sees me. He just shoved a random freshman before lunch, for no reason, glowering as he passed people in the hallways. I heard he just got up in the middle of remedial algebra and stalked out. He must have been here since because no one could tell me where he was all day. "Noah, you can't just do things like hang up on people and bully freshmen whenever you feel like it."
"What do you care," he snaps at me. "Why don't you go and prance around with your little purpose?"
I flinch at the malice he shoves into that word. It's unlike him to be so harsh with me. "You know she's important to me, Noah. Someday, you'll have a purpose who you have to look out for, too. Why can't you just let that be?"
"You're not just looking out for her and you know it," he snarls. He glares as he turns and walks away.
I hate this. It's not being an angel but it's just being a person that makes me uncomfortable when I know someone is angry with me. The discomfort is distracting enough that I almost didn't notice it until Noah's back was turned to me and he crouched to jump into flight.
His wings are darker as the charcoal from which smoke rises. It wasn't inviting anymore, like they were when they were a tender grey. The feathers, definitely darker and almost haughty, were menacing, a threat hidden in his wings.
"Noah!"
But he was already gone, a small grey speck in the sky.
I come back to the lake that Santana drove us to. It feels almost wrong to be in the field right now when Noah's energy is so angry, like it's just not this place to be practicing Divinity. So I got in my car and drove, my mind completely preoccupied with Noah's temperament, and somehow, I ended up back here. At this empty lake.
No one was here yesterday and no one is here today. I suspect Santana uses this as her thinking place because it's so quiet, the serene kind of silence that follows the end of a song.
Even though we were here yesterday, I feel like we were here together only moments ago. It may be the echoes of her presence in this place but it has a calming effect.
The lake is dark at night and I walk out to the low-deck pier, the tender wood cold enough to feel damp under my feet. When I reach the end of it, I sit cross-legged.
The air rushes in cleanly into my lungs, crisp enough to feel fresh. Nope, definitely not LA. It wasn't smoggy or full of car exhaust. I close my eyes, feeling the ripples of Santana's presence from yesterday wash away the anxiety.
Inhale, exhale. The air flows calmly, naturally and directionless as the water in a river. Walls around my mind slowly drop, the consciousness of everything around me touching my heart. I feel every molecule of life in the water, every reed in the lake. The wind, the soft movement of water as the wind kisses its surface. And I feel love, the love of life, the love of these creatures for each other, their love for the land, the wind's love for the open sky, my love for this Earth and the people who walk on it and the creatures whose consciousness brush mine.
Light shines through the thin skin of my eyelids. When I open it, my palms are glowing, small circles on my palms pulsing with a soft, tempered light.
This is Divinity. To feel life and love without walls, inhibition, insecurities. To be aware of the truest truths: we are alive and there is love in this world.
Hello, dear readers!
Sorry this one took so long. I decided to adjust the direction of the story to have it actually be a pretty full/long storyline (long, in my opinion) and of course, life has swept me up in its usual chaos and troubles.
Thank you guys so much for the wonderful reviews. It's always really encouraging and great. It makes writing for you guys an absolute pleasure.
Leave some love & reviews!
C.