make days from the hours
Elvis isn't sure how long it's been. A day, maybe, or two or three or more, somewhere between a night and a week, most likely falling somewhere directly in the middle. Either way, he doesn't think it matters. No matter how much time passes, Anabelle is gone, she isn't coming back, their supply of her so-called miracles run dry. What he's learned is not to discredit what they got, her disappearance not changing the fact that, for a while, things were good, better than he ever expected they'd be; he isn't about to pretend like it wasn't at least miraculous, how she showed up like a vision in the field of sunflowers that saved his life. That doesn't make up for it at all, though, and it's a lot harder to try to consider how she'd have wanted him to look at things in her absence. it was worth it to have had her here while he could than not to have had her at all, but he can't sugarcoat the fact that she's gone, or act as if it doesn't hurt like few other things have in his life (which says a lot, all things considered).
However many hours, days, nights it's been, he's spent all of that time steering clear of most people. Eden has been wonderful, but there are few others he wants to bother with at all. Anabelle made most everything more tolerable, but it's like that's completely reversed in her absence, enough that he's caught himself wishing on occasion that he could go back, too, regardless of the complications being home would involve. At least he'd have her. Now, he has nothing, which carries a hell of a lot of weight for what's essentially emptiness.
He can't keep out of the way forever, though. He just chooses his timing carefully, goes to the kitchen at an hour when there are fewer people there, intent on getting, if maybe not something to eat, at least a coffee. (He'd go to one of the bars, but he doesn't feel like socializing.) It's only once he's there, cup in hand, that someone else walks in, and at first all he sees is a shock of blonde hair, enough to make his breath catch in his throat, grip loosening on the mug's handle, though he catches himself just in time. Logically, he knows better, but it's still startling. He's just relieved he came to his senses before he could react in any sort of noticeable way.
"Hey," he says, voice low and the slightest bit hoarse from how little talking he's been doing. "Caroline, right?"
However many hours, days, nights it's been, he's spent all of that time steering clear of most people. Eden has been wonderful, but there are few others he wants to bother with at all. Anabelle made most everything more tolerable, but it's like that's completely reversed in her absence, enough that he's caught himself wishing on occasion that he could go back, too, regardless of the complications being home would involve. At least he'd have her. Now, he has nothing, which carries a hell of a lot of weight for what's essentially emptiness.
He can't keep out of the way forever, though. He just chooses his timing carefully, goes to the kitchen at an hour when there are fewer people there, intent on getting, if maybe not something to eat, at least a coffee. (He'd go to one of the bars, but he doesn't feel like socializing.) It's only once he's there, cup in hand, that someone else walks in, and at first all he sees is a shock of blonde hair, enough to make his breath catch in his throat, grip loosening on the mug's handle, though he catches himself just in time. Logically, he knows better, but it's still startling. He's just relieved he came to his senses before he could react in any sort of noticeable way.
"Hey," he says, voice low and the slightest bit hoarse from how little talking he's been doing. "Caroline, right?"