Her name used to fall like water from his lips, but you know what they say.
Blood always runs thicker.
…
"Listen," he used to start every time. He doesn't know why, to be honest, because with every shaking breath he knew she was listening. Listen to me, please, hear what I'm saying because I want it to matter. He couldn't help himself. He was selfish with her.
"I'm listening," she used to reply impatiently, foot tapping, hands on her hips, eyes flashing dangerously when he waited before continuing.
He just wanted to make sure he had her attention. She's easily distracted by pretty things.
It's a shame, then, that he is, too.
…
Some days she just wants to light a match, throw it on her past, and watch it burn. Some days she doesn't. Some days she feels like a grenade, like a live wire, like if anyone touched her she'd just explode and kill them all.
And wouldn't that be lovely?
Going out in a blaze of glory like some twisted parody of a firework. Falling deeper, and deeper, until the only way out seems to be black and mild versions of once-fiery embers. Cutting away her shell until she finds something within that wasn't what she expected, and maybe was never in there after all.
…
Oh, wait.
…
Her hair is pink, and while he kind of thinks it's hot secretly he thinks that he doesn't recognize her at all. Because that blonde hair used to be an integral part of her.
Like how whenever she was stressed she'd pull it into a crazy tight ponytail, so high on her head that it practically fell forward. It was always an indicator of her mood. Straight down, she's feeling tired, usually, or very very happy. The higher the pony the scarier it is, and on those days, when she was really that stressed, he was the only one willing to talk to her. She blew up in his face every time. Sometimes he fought back, got in her face and yelled and then held her when she cried. Usually, he just stood there and took it.
Now, though, razor-cut and sharp and maybe pulled back into a bouffant, he doesn't know who this girl is anymore. She starts crying and he gets surprised, damn it, because that isn't a bun or ponytail, it's not.
He knows it's stupid, okay. Shut up.
…
The boy who waits.
It's what they should call him, he thinks, because that's all he ever does anyways. She slips away and he's too scared to go and chase her, so he waits until she decides to come back again. It's never long.
She's in constant movement, fluttering and wavering and even when she stands her ground she finds a way to be, and robustly so.
You can't ignore her, not while she's in motion; inertia keeps your attention on her and only her and she knows that, fundamentally, she must.
…
The girl who runs, then.
Sure, let's go with that.
…
When he touches her, she lights up like a torch and promises she hates him.
"Sure you do," he replies easily, and she just gets angrier. He understands the feeling. They might not be perfect (and really, they're not, they never have been and they never will be), but maybe that's part of the appeal.
She always thought he liked her better broken.