[round 7] She is (topanga)
fic: She is
fandom: Boy Meets World
characters: Topanga, The Matthews
word count: 624
recipient: kwritten
a/n: I took the prompt and went way too far with it?? sorry!!! (also i may be projecting A LOT with this sorry again)
She preferred to linger in the eye of the storm: the kitchen. The hustle and bustle of everyday activities grew hushed around her (as if it knew better than to disturb her). The room itself seemed more alive while she occupied it. It breathed, it sighed, it faintly sang. Beams of light were liquid gold when they fell and tumbled down her curls. The air charged with electricity when she argued passionately. It was warmer wherever she was or touched, and her scent steeped into the furniture and tiles for days (if she were ever gone for more than a night).
They could feel without saying that the house felt off without her in it. She stands at the sink filling a vase with water for her flowers on a Monday. She sits at the table writing furiously, whether for school or pleasure no one is quite sure, on Thursday. Saturday finds her standing at the island pouring herself some juice and spilling it because her nose is deep within a Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy or a newspaper. Something about her presence felt good. Felt right.
They wouldn’t call it a routine, but it was almost tradition in the way they each interacted with her. A light squeeze on her shoulder. A quick joke or tease (effortlessly given back with twice the wit). A compliment. A kiss on the cheek or forehead. An invitation for dinner. Menial and meaningful gestures that seemed to mean everything and nothing all at once.
Her company was not only welcomed, it was cherished. She smiled easily, laughed too loud, and always helped out after dinner. She could wax poetic for days about a lecture she heard or sit and listen to a woe or trifle. Topanga was early morning questions about life and school and friends. Late night discussions about life and stress and tears. Anytime proposed philosophies or ignored book recommendations or that song she just can’t get out of her head.
She had slowly left her mark wherever she tread. Report cards and school pictures plastered to the fridge that nobody finds odd and everyone knows who put them there. A bowl of milk she left out for a stray cat a week ago that’s starting to curdle. A wet towel used after a surprise thunderstorm strewn across the back of a chair that will probably cause the paint to peel but no one seems to care. An aluminum water bottle sitting in the drying rack that she tried once and opted for something softer with a spout she can chew on when she’s nervous.
(It’s not that she was never home. Though she rarely returned home to find them worried about her whereabouts.)
(It was no secret she felt more at home with the Matthews. It was no secret they all felt more at home with her around.)
She always remembers where the good snacks are hidden and how long it takes for the sink to get hot, but she sometimes forgets about the loose cabinet that tends to snag arm sleeves or the fact that [mother] moves the table when she mops so it’s not always in the exact same place. She knows the ceiling is high enough for a balloon bouquet but the door isn’t quite wide enough. She knows that the plants in the window need to be watered every day but father tends to do it every other day.
She knows what it feels like to need advice and have someone walk in and find her at the table with red eyes and a hot cocoa.
But the Matthews know what it feels like to walk downstairs and find nothing more than a vase of dead flowers and a cold, tucked-in table.