"You can stay here, Costia," you pause for just a moment, for just long enough that the shaking of your voice steadies enough that you can continue without fear of breaking once more, "you can stay until you find a place," and you think your voice tapers off into a quiet, pained whisper.

"I think we both know that'd be a mistake," and you think you hear the quiet tremor that still lives in her own voice.

"Where will you go?"

"I'll stay with my sister."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," and you hear her take a steady breath, "Once that's done can I come by and pick up my stuff?"

"Yes, of course, Costia—" and maybe you stop yourself from continuing, from saying that she's welcome to drop by whenever. If only because it still feels like she lives with you, still calls where you find yourself home.

The silence hangs for a long moment, the beating of your heart and the careful breaths you hear enough to tell you she still lingers.

"Thank you," she voices after a moment, and it comes just a bit more steady than before, "goodbye, Lexa," and maybe you feel a wetness linger a moment too long in the corner of your eye.

"Goodbye, Costia."

And so she whispers to you once more.

"Take care."


You don't think waking to the frantic beat of your heart is a cycle you will ever be used to, ever feel comfortable living. But as you lie in your bed you can't help but let your thoughts wander, can't help but let your mind twist and bend too far into the past. And maybe you feel the cold space that lies next to you when you stretch your hand out, maybe you feel the empty spot that hangs quietly by your side. And maybe you wish for a time less broken. Maybe you wish for a life less pained.

Maybe you wish for something different.

You pull the covers from you then, let the warmth of the night cling carefully around your body and so you move through the apartment. And as you follow the shadows that fall and drape themselves across the walls, a lonely guide that takes you forward, you think of memories gone, of times past and moments lived. And maybe you're just a bit too morose. Maybe you're just a bit too selfish.

But you embrace it.

You embrace the burn of the steam as the water boils and you embrace the heat of the cup as it stabs into your hands. And as you pad to the window and as the light of the outside night shines softly you think you smile a lonely, broken thing.

And so you sit down quietly, you let the floor in all its cold embrace bring a steadiness to your mind. And so you watch the cars that brave the dark of the night as they pass, you watch the clouds as they sail and drift through the sky. And you watch the changing of the lights. You watch the gentle red as it signals a truth, a warning, a gentle reproach. And as your eyes follow the green that skirts and dances and lives brightly, full of a quiet energy you think you smile for just a moment. And maybe you don't feel so pained when the green shifts to the yellow of a soon to be end. Maybe you don't feel so sad when the yellow takes hold. And maybe you don't feel so tired when you think it a calming, careful hue. One that speaks of a change to come, that calls to a time yet to be remembered. One still to be lived.

And as the lights change, as they shift and move from one colour to the next you think them a quiet comfort in the night. If only because you think them a steady pattern.

And so you bring the cup to your lips and you let the liquid burn for a moment in your mouth and as you let the pull of the lights bring your mind further into a quiet revelry you know you won't find sleep again.

And so you let yourself sit and you let yourself be, just for now, a quiet sentinel by your window, the warmth you hold in your hands a lonely companion for the nights where you think you linger too long in a past, too long in a gentle memory that drifts just out of reach.


The drink burns your throat, stings your nostrils and fouls your breath. But you're sure you couldn't drink enough. Couldn't burn away the pain and the moments of anger. And maybe you'll regret your actions later. Maybe you'll despise the lonesome mess you know you will become. And you think you'll find yourself a stumbling mess in the morning, a pathetic mixing of chaos and confusion when you reach for her in the night, when you roll into a warmth that no longer rests by your side.

And maybe you just want to forget.

You reach for the glass again, and maybe for a moment you think you see more than one rest before you, and maybe just for a moment your fingers slip through the glass, can't quite grasp what you see before you. And you think you glare and scowl a fierce, broken thing when Gustus reaches out, when he snatches the glass from your table.

"I'm—" you pause, look up at him through the blurring of your eyes, "I'm not finished."

"I'm cutting you off."

And you think you must seem a pitied thing when he sighs softly, when he sits before you.

"I'm not— not finished."

"Lexa—" and you reach out, poke him on the forehead, and maybe you miss, maybe your finger merely hangs awkwardly to the side of his head.

"It's Miss Woods," you pause just for a moment, "remember?"

"How'd you get here?"

And maybe it takes you longer than it should to recall just how you got to the restaurant.

"I drived here," and maybe you've drunk too much if only because your grammar must be failing.

"I'm taking you home," he says then, already beginning to rise, already taking the jacket you had hung off the chair.

"Nah, Gus— No," you think you try and push him away, try and wriggle from his grasp.

But you know it to be a futile, pointless exercise.

You don't quite remember how you get home. You don't quite remember Gustus carrying your limp body up the stairs and you don't quite remember him holding your hair back as you empty your stomach.

And you think you're thankful that you don't quite remember Gustus trying to avert his eyes as he tries you have you change into more comfortable clothes. And you know you're thankful that you don't remember as you sob into his chest, as he tucks you into bed and as he runs a soothing hand over your head as you fall into a not so soothing, not so gentle slumber.

And when you wake in the morning, when you find him sleeping on your couch, you think yourself guilty.

And you know yourself alone.


Your feet strum steadily across the ground, your legs carrying you further and further. And as you race past the people that brave the early morning you let them blur into the reds and yellows and greens of colour, of life and change. And as your eyes glimpse the splashes of rusted browns as they fall from tree limbs, and as you see the yellow that carpets the ground you think you feel a quiet thought drift and pull slowly through your mind.

And you feel your chest rise and fall steadily, you feel the gentle pull of your thigh and maybe you're content in the way it burns just a bit less, in the way it stretches a bit more before you feel the sting.

And as you round the corner, as the rising of the sun settles into your eyes you think you avert them for a moment, you think you try and shield them from the piercing heat that lingers too long and too bright in your vision.

And maybe you think you're ready for a chance.

Maybe you think yourself ready for a change.


You brush away a strand of hair that clings to your cheek as you reach your door, and as your key scrapes into the lock, as you push open the door you think that maybe, just for a moment, that the sting and the quiet of the apartment lingers just a moment less than it used to. But maybe you think you can hold onto a memory, hold onto a dream or a moment yet to be lived. And it's not too far to the bathroom. Just a quick right turn, just a small walk down the hallway, and as you pass the linen cupboard you snatch a towel, and as you peel off your top you think, if only out of habit, if only out of a memory, that you glance past your shoulder, glance at the kitchen as it sits silently behind you.

And maybe it still stings just a bit.


You let the water steam and warm the bathroom. You let the steady beat of the shower soothe your mind and steady the beating of your heart. And as you step under it, as you let the heat burn away the exhaustion and the sweat of a morning too tiring you think you smile. Just for a bit. Just for long enough that it feels just a bit like a lie.

And you let the lather build, you let it sting your eyes and you let it wash from your hair. And as you you to face the heat of the water you think you enjoy this routine. You think you enjoy the pain and the heat and the steady pressure. If only because it feels less lonesome. If only because you feel less alone.

But maybe you're ready for that chance.

Maybe you're ready for the change.

And maybe you smile.

Just for a moment.


It's cruel and taunting. It's a unfair and unkind.

And maybe you think you torment yourself too much. Maybe you punish yourself more than you deserve. But maybe you're selfish. And so you let the light that shines softly against the cool metal of the bands catch your eye. You let the light flash and dance and curl around the curve of the rings as they rest in your palm.

And you think you hate the memories they bring forth. And you know it pains you and tears quietly into your mind. And you think that it builds, you think it increases in tempo until you feel a steady burn that races through your veins and a deafening drum that echoes in your ears.

And so you curse. You cry out and you fling the rings from you. And you slam your hand against the table and you think you feel your tears fall a haphazard and messy trail down your face.

And as you hear the rings skitter, as you hear them clang and bounce and roll somewhere in the distance you think you curse your stupidity.

Fuck

You look down, your eyes searching the ground.

Fuck

You drop to your hands and knees, your eyes scanning wildly, your hands reaching frantically.

Fuck

You search wildly, a curse repeating through your mind and you think yourself foolish and stupid at discarding the rings in anger. And you think your eyes catch the glint of gold in the quiet of the setting sun and you know you let out a relieved sigh as your eyes fall onto a ring that lies under the couch. And you know you smile as your fingers reach out, as they close around it.

And you think you curse once more as you begin searching for the other. And maybe you hope that it hasn't left you forever. And maybe you hope you will have a chance to hold onto it. Just once more.


It's not far. Just a quiet walk in the morning sun and you let your feet take you forwards, the gentle hum of the cars that pass a soothing beat to your ears. And as you hear the chatter of birds you think you smile for a moment, and as you pass others that walk, some carefree, some with their thoughts elsewhere you think they all live in a world of their own, with their own problems and their own trials and their own hopes and dreams and regrets. With their own wants. Their own chances and longings for a change.

And aren't you ready for your own now?

You think you are, and you smile gently as you pass a morning walker, as you see the dog that walks the woman and you smile at the exasperation and the annoyance that lingers on her face. And as you come to the lights, as you pause until the moment when you can safely cross, you pull your jacket around yourself just a bit tighter, just enough so that the bite of the air is lessened for a moment. And so you breathe in, let the air fill your lungs and you think you will miss the warmth of the closing season. And you think the coming chill of a too close winter will leave you wary of the outside wind, wary of the biting cold. But maybe, with a chance and a change it will be less tiresome, less anguished than before.

You're ready for a change.


You round a corner and you think a smile twitches the corners of your mouth, and you think the beating of your heart is just a bit stronger than you've felt in a long while. And as you move closer, as you let your feet carry you further you know you smile a quiet, careful, hopeful thing at the smell of the coffee that wakes your mind, and you know you feel the twitch in your fingers as the scents of sandwiches, toasted and fresh, wash over you.

You pause for only a moment as you near the door, and you let your hand linger for just a fraction of a second on the handle. Just long enough to brace yourself and then you push forward, you let the warmth of the cafe wash over you and you let the gentle push and pull of the sounds, of the memories and the moments that linger, wind their way carefully through your mind.

You find yourself seated in a corner, small and quiet. Out of the way of the bustle of the morning and you let your eyes flicker over the menu, you let your gaze fall onto the words that still sit comfortable and too ridiculous for you to repeat. But you think you already know your choice, and so you let your eyes trail to the TV that still rests on the wall and you let it carry your attention for a short while.

It's not long, just a short little moment. But you hear the door open, you see the flash of colour and the careful searching of eyes. And you think you smile gently when your eyes meet, and you think you smile when her hand raises. And you know you smile as she approaches.

"Sorry I'm late," she says as she nears, as she pulls the chair out from in front of you, "I was studying. I didn't realise what time it was."

And you smile again, shake your head for a moment.

"It's ok," and you pass her a menu and you watch as her eyes flicker down, and you watch as she bites her lip for a moment, as she furrows her brow. And you smile when she looks up at you, and you think you already know the words you will both say.

"What're you having?" she asks, her eyes dancing in the morning light.

And so you shrug once, let it sit comfortably between you both.

"Whatever you're having," and you see her cheeks redden, see her bite her lip once more and you know you love the way her eyes shine fiercely in the morning sun when she looks back to you, and you know you love the way her lip curls gently and you know you love the way her hair sways quietly as she leans forward.

"Smooth, Woods."

And you know you love her.

"You're welcome, Griffin."

She leaves to order, and you know what she will bring back. And so you let your eyes wander, let them fall back to the TV and maybe you grimace for a moment, and maybe you smile for a while as your eyes catch the car that races across the screen, as you recognise the actor, his face just a moment older. And you think your eyes roll and a sigh escapes your lips, just for a moment.

"What?" she says then, handing you a knife and fork as she sits back down before you.

"I can't believe they're making another one," you smile.

"They're good," she protests lightly, her lips curving into a happy smile.

"Yeah," you pause for a moment and you let your eyes hold her gaze, "I guess they are."

And she smiles, and as you watch her eyes dance in the soft yellow of the light and as you see her hair as it shines a gentle golden pink in the rays of a rising sun you think yourself thankful. If only because she sits before you. If only because she reaches out tentatively, carefully and quietly. And you think you feel the steadying of your heart and the soothing of your mind as her hand reaches yours and as her fingers squeeze just for a moment.

And so she says to you, her eyes shining brilliantly in the morning sun.

"I'm glad we finally did this."

And you think yourself happy with the once more that lives before you.

And so you let your hand hold hers.

And you smile.

"Me too."