[She doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to spend another year here, trapped by the things she has had to do. She doesn't want to face the things she never should have done. She doesn't want to face the losses, the connections that were ripped away from her. She doesn't want any of this.
But maybe, maybe even for the first time, a small part of her does.
She doesn't think it coherently, doesn't acknowledge it. It becomes part of the fuel for her desire to leave.]
I think you may have gone mad, [she mutters in response to the idea that nothing can shift him from her side. The words are half lost, though, when she closes the space between them to hug him tightly.]
[Spam]
But maybe, maybe even for the first time, a small part of her does.
She doesn't think it coherently, doesn't acknowledge it. It becomes part of the fuel for her desire to leave.]
I think you may have gone mad, [she mutters in response to the idea that nothing can shift him from her side. The words are half lost, though, when she closes the space between them to hug him tightly.]