lily, himym drabble: i left my heart
title: i left my heart
fandom: HIMYM
character: Lily
rating: G
a/n: Vague spoilers through S1.
You wanna get married -- or run away?
You'd thought it'd be different -- bigger, somehow. But maybe it's only you, keeping your world small.
There's your suite, and hard, cramped bed pushed against the low window, and closet full of things that haven't been to anywhere but here, and the overhead light that comes and goes. There's your art, coming along -- and it's this that makes it all seem more hopeful. Like it was worth everything, and everything after, just to know that you could have this space.
You just work on what you see, and it's nice not having to think too closely. But sometimes you'll take a second look, at a school letting out for the day or a stooped corner bar or a tall boy walking down the street with his hands shoved in his pockets, and your heart stops.
You left expecting -- you can't even say, but this isn't Paris, college redux. You feel as if you should know what this is, because you've left black hair and ripped tights behind, you've left your best friend and your best friend behind, and you're twenty-seven years old with charcoal grit under your fingernails. It's hard to be at ease with yourself, and it's harder still to put into words or your art, just why you're trying.
And still, you are. You're here, every day waking three hours later, unable explain your current existence all the while you're living it, where the sun also rises. Even here, even for you.
fandom: HIMYM
character: Lily
rating: G
a/n: Vague spoilers through S1.
You wanna get married -- or run away?
You'd thought it'd be different -- bigger, somehow. But maybe it's only you, keeping your world small.
There's your suite, and hard, cramped bed pushed against the low window, and closet full of things that haven't been to anywhere but here, and the overhead light that comes and goes. There's your art, coming along -- and it's this that makes it all seem more hopeful. Like it was worth everything, and everything after, just to know that you could have this space.
You just work on what you see, and it's nice not having to think too closely. But sometimes you'll take a second look, at a school letting out for the day or a stooped corner bar or a tall boy walking down the street with his hands shoved in his pockets, and your heart stops.
You left expecting -- you can't even say, but this isn't Paris, college redux. You feel as if you should know what this is, because you've left black hair and ripped tights behind, you've left your best friend and your best friend behind, and you're twenty-seven years old with charcoal grit under your fingernails. It's hard to be at ease with yourself, and it's harder still to put into words or your art, just why you're trying.
And still, you are. You're here, every day waking three hours later, unable explain your current existence all the while you're living it, where the sun also rises. Even here, even for you.