(drabble) there's a gap where we meet
there's a gap where we meet, 402, Lily/James, That one little word that tore her apart, leaving all her insecurities bare for all to see, and what kind of best friend does something like that?
Her mind is murky and confused and just can't seem to shut the hell up. Words race around her brain, vile and hurtful words that she could sling at him, insult after insult that would burn and leave their mark. A brand for all to see and mock, so that he will feel nothing but searing shame at every turn. She has worked herself into a proper rant but only inside her head, for her words are painful and they are many, but they are also meaningless. Meaningless because no matter how many insults her fevered mind creates, nothing she says could ever be equal to that one.
That one little word that tore her apart, leaving all her insecurities bare for all to see, and what kind of best friend does something like that?
There's a cold feeling in her stomach and it is equal parts rage and loss. She sits leaning against the back of the portrait and lets him beat on the frame, each hit setting the rhythm for her pounding headache. Bright red hair is twirled idly around her fingers and how he used to laugh at her habit of playing with it.
She wants to blame it all on that one fucking word but the truth is that they've been falling apart for months now, two mismatched pieces just now realizing that they were never meant to fit together no matter how much they tried to deny it.
Another boy comes down the stairs from his dorm, a boy whose arrogance is put on display for all to see through the set of his shoulders and the glint in his eye, and oh how she has words for him to. She contemplates taking all those insults and flinging them at him, because it's so much easier to lay the blame at his Converse-clad feet.
He runs his hands through his messy hair and gives her a shaky smile followed by a quiet "I'm sorry, Evans," and it sounds more sincere than any other thing he's ever said to her. An olive branch and it's up to her to reach out and take it.
She does so with an equally soft "thank you," and he settles down beside her against the portrait, his side pressed up against hers. She grabs his hand and it is an impulse, but she can't help but hold on tight.
Her mind clears.
Her mind is murky and confused and just can't seem to shut the hell up. Words race around her brain, vile and hurtful words that she could sling at him, insult after insult that would burn and leave their mark. A brand for all to see and mock, so that he will feel nothing but searing shame at every turn. She has worked herself into a proper rant but only inside her head, for her words are painful and they are many, but they are also meaningless. Meaningless because no matter how many insults her fevered mind creates, nothing she says could ever be equal to that one.
That one little word that tore her apart, leaving all her insecurities bare for all to see, and what kind of best friend does something like that?
There's a cold feeling in her stomach and it is equal parts rage and loss. She sits leaning against the back of the portrait and lets him beat on the frame, each hit setting the rhythm for her pounding headache. Bright red hair is twirled idly around her fingers and how he used to laugh at her habit of playing with it.
She wants to blame it all on that one fucking word but the truth is that they've been falling apart for months now, two mismatched pieces just now realizing that they were never meant to fit together no matter how much they tried to deny it.
Another boy comes down the stairs from his dorm, a boy whose arrogance is put on display for all to see through the set of his shoulders and the glint in his eye, and oh how she has words for him to. She contemplates taking all those insults and flinging them at him, because it's so much easier to lay the blame at his Converse-clad feet.
He runs his hands through his messy hair and gives her a shaky smile followed by a quiet "I'm sorry, Evans," and it sounds more sincere than any other thing he's ever said to her. An olive branch and it's up to her to reach out and take it.
She does so with an equally soft "thank you," and he settles down beside her against the portrait, his side pressed up against hers. She grabs his hand and it is an impulse, but she can't help but hold on tight.
Her mind clears.