(no subject)
[Private/Hackable]
We save up words and secrets like precious treasures, or perhaps some great and magnificent bottle of poison. We hide them in our hearts, buried under layers of the most mundane and petty actions, masking ourselves from the world because to bare our very souls always would be like suicide. We wait, days of pretending, dancing through the careful social rites of politeness, courtesy, always finding ways to mask ourselves and always we wait.
We wait for the perfect moment. We dread it, we crave it, because it is a moment a person can utter those buried words, the secrets that have never seen light.
Sometimes it comes, and we let it pass. There will always be another moment, always a second chance. A third. A fourth. Another moment. Just once more and things will be right.
And then they are gone to a place where you can't reach them, and those words, those secrets die within you, withering into regret as the brief autumn colours wither to winter grays.
Some call this place a second chance, and yet...
[/Private/Hackable]
Basch... Your brother's gone back.