Fic, Lost: Come As You Are (Jack/Juliet), PG
Title: Come As You Are
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Juliet
Rating: PG really
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will.
Word count: around 2900
Summary: for 12_stories #1, colour.You don’t understand why and how you ended here in the first place; the only thing you can be sure of is that hers is some of the worst cooking you ever tasted in your life, but strangely, you find it comforting. Because it’s the proof that she isn’t just as perfect as she seems and that her facade is just as fake as you thought.
Spoilers: General S3 and The Other Woman.
A/N: This is my (very) belated birthday fic for lenina20, who wanted Jack/Juliet and I gladly comply ;) I realize there isn't nothing new really but I hope you like it nonetheless! Uhm, apart from the fact that I've gone with the dreaded second person POV, nothing that interesting to say and nothing that wasn't in canon. With which I hope I didn't mess involuntarily. Title stolen from Nirvana, but that song has nothing at all to do with this whatsoever. And now I'll stop and just post the thing.
The first time, you see her through green lens, though they're not properly lens; it’s a glass wall between you and her and a green, artificial, fake light which is the only proper source of illumination in the room. To you, she looks as fake as that light is.
Her hair is so impossibly straight, not a curl out of place; her clothes are clean and seem just bought from some shop, her smile and her concerned expression are fake, much too fake, too. She really looks to you like she just came out some Fifties advertisement, especially when she shows you that burger, so ridiculously presented that you would laugh, if not for the situation. That green really doesn’t suit the golden blonde of her hair. It should, but it doesn’t. She looks cheap, fake, put up.
Her reaction when you have a piece of glass scraping the skin of her neck only confirms your opinion.
You can’t exactly place her subsequent behavior, true enough, but you figure that she only wants to obtain something and even when she reads you the confirm of your failure, you can only notice the green light through a vision that it’s no more than a blur. You can’t help thinking that for how much she seems to know you, for how much she could be different from what she appears, she’s just something unreal behind that glass wall.
Lately, you admit that you have trouble in figuring her out.
As soon as you think you understood something about her, she says something that sends you back to square one. You can definitely guess that she has an agenda of her own; you just don’t understand how is that you fit into it. Well, you don’t understand why and how you ended here in the first place; the only thing you can be sure of is that hers is some of the worst cooking you ever tasted in your life, but strangely, you find it comforting. Because it’s the proof that she isn’t just as perfect as she seems and that her facade is just as fake as you thought.
Then you see her in a pale, blind yellow light, a light that you were once accustomed and that you thought you forgot, the light of an operating room.
She isn’t as perfect or as sure of herself there, she doesn’t have a concerned expression plastered across her face, she’s clearly not at ease with what she’s doing; when she tells you she isn’t accustomed to death, you can tell that it’s half a lie. She probably doesn’t like it, but the look in her eyes tells you that this isn’t the first, or the second, or even the third time someone dies under her hands. You don’t know why, but that’s what it looks like.
The fact that the green light makes Kate look just as fake as she looks sickens you to a degree you find almost disturbing.
Maybe even more than you’re sickened by Kate’s words, which sound striding as you hear them; you can’t refrain from thinking that at least her voice is fake, but pleasant. Kate’s isn’t fake, but her words hurt so much that you can’t refrain from thinking that maybe Juliet’s faking is easier to take.
Then, there’s the black and white of that monitor, followed by the operating room again; there’s the silent sound of your heart breaking and of your guts wrenching and then you’re in a pair of scrubs. You could probably admit that they became another skin to you because you’ve never really dismissed them, even when you crashed here; now, it’s a question of acknowledging it, but you’d rather not. She’s in front of you, also dressed in scrubs, again looking like she was just cast for some medical tv show. You don’t know what you should do, again the weight on your shoulders is really too heavy. You never wanted to do this and least of all, you never wanted to save the life of the man on the operating table. You aren’t even so sure you want to go away; maybe you just asked for it because when you saw them in that cage the main reason you had for staying stopped existing. You don’t have nothing here and you don’t have nothing there; but there, at least, there really is nothing, while here, you’d have always something reminding you of her, of them.
Thing is, you don’t trust no one anymore and you’re fairly sure that even if you get off, they won’t be let out. You shouldn’t care, especially not regarding Kate (because, to be fair, Sawyer was never the problem; he made his point clear since day one like you made yours and you doubt he even has an idea of what is going on); point is, you spent your life caring too much without being able to help it and that’s one of the reasons why you turn the cards on the table at the last minutes. Sawyer may be the best con on this island, but you have learned something, too.
The other reason is to see whether she’s going to keep on the act or to show something new.
You knew she was going to call your bluff, you can see her expression harden and become cold under the blinding white light from above your head. You think that it still isn’t it, that it’s still part of an act, but you’re satisfied for now. You still don’t know how she really is, but it’s a step until you figure it out. You see her crying, then, you see her becoming much less restrained, and you’re sure that at least it is real. That what she wants is to leave.
Now you know that there’s something that can break whatever mask she’s been wearing and that she’s not the one that the green light showed. You can’t help wondering what’s behind it.
When you brush past her in the hallway, you’re going outside and she’s going inside; the light is not exactly green, it’s surely less intense, but for that second in which your eyes meet, the green light doesn’t fool you and she isn’t that fake anymore. Maybe because she’s obviously in trouble.
You don’t know why you lie. You don’t know why you should even care.
She killed someone in order to escape. Why should you care? She’s a doctor, she has a oath, she didn’t stand to it. You really shouldn’t care.
You think you do because she still did it because of something you wanted, or something along these lines, you don’t really want to dwell on it.
You know that if Ben dies, though, you won’t get off and neither will she; and you know that if she dies, you’re never going to forgive yourself for it even if it really isn’t your fault.
That sandwich tastes actually better than all the food she ever brought you up to this moment.
The mark is red and ugly against her pale skin, your stomach turns while you apply the aloe on the wound, a different kind of green on white and crimson; her blonde hair drops gently on her shoulders when you’re done, a layer of pure white cotton slightly dirty with blood covers the wound and while you look into her clear blue eyes, in the natural light of the day, you think this is the closest to the real her you have been. Even if there’s still something off and you are sure enough that the cage between you and her isn’t all of it.
--
You aren’t so much of an idiot not to understand how fake this place they call home is; just the idea of having a small, little village with every comfort on an island in the middle of the ocean screams fake.
You adjust, though. It’s just the last step you have to take before you can leave this whole madness behind and you only have to do your job.
You learn the art of faking. You learn to be friendly and easy going with people that you can’t see, you help Ben even if you’d really rather not, sometimes you think Juliet is really sincere. You can tell she is when she says she can’t wait to leave; you can’t wait, too, and the common target makes it easy to relate.
The lights at the Barracks are natural, but there’s still something that slips from you, when you look at her in these surroundings. She still doesn’t look at ease (which you guess is a step from that terrible easiness of the Hydra cage), but most of the time she still looks as fake and as artificial as her hair, straight and remarkably shiny but not as they should be. I wish she stopped straightening them, you think from time to time. The fact that you think you can trust her doesn’t have anything to do with it. Not at all.
It’s an orange, yellow and red explosion of fire when your occasion to leave blows into pieces.
You don’t know whether you should be enraged or whether you’re secretly happy you don’t have to leave, because really, you haven’t surely forgiven Kate and you don’t understand why would she be back for you after what has happened, but then again, you don’t know what would you have done on the mainland. Sure, you would’ve tried to get the authorities to find everyone else. And then?
You decide not to think about it.
Then there’s the gas and there’s Kate in front of you and you can’t really say you’re sorry when you mention Juliet’s name and her eyes darken for a second.
You aren’t really surprised when Locke doesn’t go back with you.
In the light of the morning you see Juliet and Sayid coming to meet you; she’s as dirty as Kate is, her top looks more like a yellow rag smeared in brown. Her hair falls on her shoulders in messy curls, earth showing through the strands.
It’s the most real she’s appeared in front of your eyes until now.
--
When she gets clean at the beach, her hair remains curly; you like it much better. The large, not so white shirt she’s wearing now looks used enough to seem actually from the island and not from the airport’s fashion lounge, she wears plain jeans, you find yourself liking this new image of her, you think you can really trust her now and well, the others will figure it out soon.
She tells you, and you admit you do an excellent job of keeping yourself from bursting.
You fix your eyes on the blue of her shirt, hoping that staring at something will help you keeping your head straight; you’re happy you manage to, because after she’s gone, you actually don’t feel hurt.
Not thinking about whatever happened with that submarine because it isn’t the point, you understand that she has just given up on leaving and on whatever Ben promised her and yeah, you think while she walks away, blue and blonde melting in the green of the trees, you can definitely trust her now, even if you aren’t ever going to understand her.
It doesn’t seem the matter, right now. Finding a way to stay safe actually is.
--
That small kiss makes you stop deadly in your tracks.
It’s a peck, nothing more than it. You barely feel the softness of her lips before she’s gone with Sawyer and it’s like it never happened.
Almost, because Kate’s expression when you meet her eyes briefly witnesses that it happened, alright.
When you kissed Kate, it had been frantic, someway desperate and you can’t really say you remember it with affection.
You think about this one, while you set off again, and you find yourself smiling somewhat fondly, not being able to help it; alright, it didn’t take much to figure out that she cares about you somewhat, she wouldn’t have told you the truth about her true job if she didn’t, but still, that’s a confirm.
You won’t go and try to deny yourself, though; that’s why you settle on telling Kate what you should have told her a while ago. But it is because you just think it’s fair to admit that you do love her and you always will; that’s why when Sawyer comes back you won’t blink an eye when she’ll go back to him. She chose, you’re alright with it; telling her means to move on and you feel like it’s time to.
--
Everything happens in the blink of an eye.
From a second to the following one, they’re divided, scattered on two different sides; one of yours is dead and you can’t even find it in yourself to stop a second and think about it.
You should stop Desmond and ask for some explanation; you start to think that you should have stuck to that resolution of not allowing Charlie to go for that swim, yeah, alright, you should have, except that first you find yourself dealing with three people who you wouldn’t have chosen to go on a rescue team for your life, then Desmond and Sayid are gone on the helicopter and you can’t really ask Desmond now; Kate is gone too and well, you had known it, no hard feelings.
You can’t help feeling completely out of the loop when you get in contact with the freighter and you admit without a problem that you didn’t understand a thing of what’s going on. You just hope Dan knows what he’s doing and you wash your hands of it; you trust Sayid not to fuck anything up and you really can’t start to worry about what happens in a place where you aren’t.
She’s been at your side all the time and you thank her silently for it; she has dealt with Charlotte much better than you and she looks far more at ease than she was before everything went to hell. You’re thankful for it; you can’t remember the last time you felt at ease, right now.
--
The sky is clouded, but impossibly white; she stands in front of you, pale blonde curls falling over her shoulders, that creamy white shirt looking even larger for her than it is, clear blue eyes shining with a sincerity you have never seen coming from her, sadness all over her like a shadow.
It doesn’t matter that what she’s saying about Ben telling her whatever he did doesn’t make sense.
A lot of things that don’t make sense happened until now, right?
The blood on the upper side of her temple, somewhat meddled in her hair, looks too red and too dark; just as the mark on her back had been. Her voice breaks when she tells you that Ben believes she’s his and you can only get even more angry at a sentence like that; if only, you got how really sick Ben can be.
“And he knows how I feel about you.”, she says, her voice so earnest that you forget you had been angry in the first place and you feel every possible sort of shivering shaking you, her eyes honest and impossibly blue. All the layers you remember from that first time behind the glass are gone, from the hair to the neat appearance to the clothes to her self confidence. Nothing is there anymore, she’s in front of you pouring her heart out, probably thinking it’s still all about Kate for you; you think you finally saw how she is and maybe you still can’t say you love what you see. But you can say that you are loving what you see right now and you really can’t not kiss her.
It’s not long, it’s not passionate, you don’t think that long and passionate is what the both of you need; but you feel her lips moving slightly against your own. They are soft against yours, warm even, her hand reaches up to your neck while your hand is still on her cheek, a few strands of hair caught between your fingers.
“He knows where to find me.”, it’s the only thing you can say when it’s over. It’s not that it’s obviously what she needs to hear, it’s not that you need to say it because what else can you say?, but it’s just the plain truth. If you don’t love her, though you’re so damn close to it you can already feel yourself slipping, you sure need her and there’s nothing to question about it.
Her hands are around your shoulders, her fingers grasp your neck, you can feel her relaxing against you when you hold her in return, as close as you can. Her heart beats against your chest, everything is silent; you feel warm, this feels right and when a thought, I need this as much as she does, flashes through your head, you open your eyes, fixing your stare on the pale blond of her hair first and on the whiteness of the sky after. It’s such a contrast to that artificial light and to that glass wall, you can’t believe that what started on such a note would end up being this real. You hold her a bit tighter and decide that you couldn’t possibly care less.
End.
Characters/Pairing: Jack/Juliet
Rating: PG really
Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will.
Word count: around 2900
Summary: for 12_stories #1, colour.You don’t understand why and how you ended here in the first place; the only thing you can be sure of is that hers is some of the worst cooking you ever tasted in your life, but strangely, you find it comforting. Because it’s the proof that she isn’t just as perfect as she seems and that her facade is just as fake as you thought.
Spoilers: General S3 and The Other Woman.
A/N: This is my (very) belated birthday fic for lenina20, who wanted Jack/Juliet and I gladly comply ;) I realize there isn't nothing new really but I hope you like it nonetheless! Uhm, apart from the fact that I've gone with the dreaded second person POV, nothing that interesting to say and nothing that wasn't in canon. With which I hope I didn't mess involuntarily. Title stolen from Nirvana, but that song has nothing at all to do with this whatsoever. And now I'll stop and just post the thing.
The first time, you see her through green lens, though they're not properly lens; it’s a glass wall between you and her and a green, artificial, fake light which is the only proper source of illumination in the room. To you, she looks as fake as that light is.
Her hair is so impossibly straight, not a curl out of place; her clothes are clean and seem just bought from some shop, her smile and her concerned expression are fake, much too fake, too. She really looks to you like she just came out some Fifties advertisement, especially when she shows you that burger, so ridiculously presented that you would laugh, if not for the situation. That green really doesn’t suit the golden blonde of her hair. It should, but it doesn’t. She looks cheap, fake, put up.
Her reaction when you have a piece of glass scraping the skin of her neck only confirms your opinion.
You can’t exactly place her subsequent behavior, true enough, but you figure that she only wants to obtain something and even when she reads you the confirm of your failure, you can only notice the green light through a vision that it’s no more than a blur. You can’t help thinking that for how much she seems to know you, for how much she could be different from what she appears, she’s just something unreal behind that glass wall.
Lately, you admit that you have trouble in figuring her out.
As soon as you think you understood something about her, she says something that sends you back to square one. You can definitely guess that she has an agenda of her own; you just don’t understand how is that you fit into it. Well, you don’t understand why and how you ended here in the first place; the only thing you can be sure of is that hers is some of the worst cooking you ever tasted in your life, but strangely, you find it comforting. Because it’s the proof that she isn’t just as perfect as she seems and that her facade is just as fake as you thought.
Then you see her in a pale, blind yellow light, a light that you were once accustomed and that you thought you forgot, the light of an operating room.
She isn’t as perfect or as sure of herself there, she doesn’t have a concerned expression plastered across her face, she’s clearly not at ease with what she’s doing; when she tells you she isn’t accustomed to death, you can tell that it’s half a lie. She probably doesn’t like it, but the look in her eyes tells you that this isn’t the first, or the second, or even the third time someone dies under her hands. You don’t know why, but that’s what it looks like.
The fact that the green light makes Kate look just as fake as she looks sickens you to a degree you find almost disturbing.
Maybe even more than you’re sickened by Kate’s words, which sound striding as you hear them; you can’t refrain from thinking that at least her voice is fake, but pleasant. Kate’s isn’t fake, but her words hurt so much that you can’t refrain from thinking that maybe Juliet’s faking is easier to take.
Then, there’s the black and white of that monitor, followed by the operating room again; there’s the silent sound of your heart breaking and of your guts wrenching and then you’re in a pair of scrubs. You could probably admit that they became another skin to you because you’ve never really dismissed them, even when you crashed here; now, it’s a question of acknowledging it, but you’d rather not. She’s in front of you, also dressed in scrubs, again looking like she was just cast for some medical tv show. You don’t know what you should do, again the weight on your shoulders is really too heavy. You never wanted to do this and least of all, you never wanted to save the life of the man on the operating table. You aren’t even so sure you want to go away; maybe you just asked for it because when you saw them in that cage the main reason you had for staying stopped existing. You don’t have nothing here and you don’t have nothing there; but there, at least, there really is nothing, while here, you’d have always something reminding you of her, of them.
Thing is, you don’t trust no one anymore and you’re fairly sure that even if you get off, they won’t be let out. You shouldn’t care, especially not regarding Kate (because, to be fair, Sawyer was never the problem; he made his point clear since day one like you made yours and you doubt he even has an idea of what is going on); point is, you spent your life caring too much without being able to help it and that’s one of the reasons why you turn the cards on the table at the last minutes. Sawyer may be the best con on this island, but you have learned something, too.
The other reason is to see whether she’s going to keep on the act or to show something new.
You knew she was going to call your bluff, you can see her expression harden and become cold under the blinding white light from above your head. You think that it still isn’t it, that it’s still part of an act, but you’re satisfied for now. You still don’t know how she really is, but it’s a step until you figure it out. You see her crying, then, you see her becoming much less restrained, and you’re sure that at least it is real. That what she wants is to leave.
Now you know that there’s something that can break whatever mask she’s been wearing and that she’s not the one that the green light showed. You can’t help wondering what’s behind it.
When you brush past her in the hallway, you’re going outside and she’s going inside; the light is not exactly green, it’s surely less intense, but for that second in which your eyes meet, the green light doesn’t fool you and she isn’t that fake anymore. Maybe because she’s obviously in trouble.
You don’t know why you lie. You don’t know why you should even care.
She killed someone in order to escape. Why should you care? She’s a doctor, she has a oath, she didn’t stand to it. You really shouldn’t care.
You think you do because she still did it because of something you wanted, or something along these lines, you don’t really want to dwell on it.
You know that if Ben dies, though, you won’t get off and neither will she; and you know that if she dies, you’re never going to forgive yourself for it even if it really isn’t your fault.
That sandwich tastes actually better than all the food she ever brought you up to this moment.
The mark is red and ugly against her pale skin, your stomach turns while you apply the aloe on the wound, a different kind of green on white and crimson; her blonde hair drops gently on her shoulders when you’re done, a layer of pure white cotton slightly dirty with blood covers the wound and while you look into her clear blue eyes, in the natural light of the day, you think this is the closest to the real her you have been. Even if there’s still something off and you are sure enough that the cage between you and her isn’t all of it.
--
You aren’t so much of an idiot not to understand how fake this place they call home is; just the idea of having a small, little village with every comfort on an island in the middle of the ocean screams fake.
You adjust, though. It’s just the last step you have to take before you can leave this whole madness behind and you only have to do your job.
You learn the art of faking. You learn to be friendly and easy going with people that you can’t see, you help Ben even if you’d really rather not, sometimes you think Juliet is really sincere. You can tell she is when she says she can’t wait to leave; you can’t wait, too, and the common target makes it easy to relate.
The lights at the Barracks are natural, but there’s still something that slips from you, when you look at her in these surroundings. She still doesn’t look at ease (which you guess is a step from that terrible easiness of the Hydra cage), but most of the time she still looks as fake and as artificial as her hair, straight and remarkably shiny but not as they should be. I wish she stopped straightening them, you think from time to time. The fact that you think you can trust her doesn’t have anything to do with it. Not at all.
It’s an orange, yellow and red explosion of fire when your occasion to leave blows into pieces.
You don’t know whether you should be enraged or whether you’re secretly happy you don’t have to leave, because really, you haven’t surely forgiven Kate and you don’t understand why would she be back for you after what has happened, but then again, you don’t know what would you have done on the mainland. Sure, you would’ve tried to get the authorities to find everyone else. And then?
You decide not to think about it.
Then there’s the gas and there’s Kate in front of you and you can’t really say you’re sorry when you mention Juliet’s name and her eyes darken for a second.
You aren’t really surprised when Locke doesn’t go back with you.
In the light of the morning you see Juliet and Sayid coming to meet you; she’s as dirty as Kate is, her top looks more like a yellow rag smeared in brown. Her hair falls on her shoulders in messy curls, earth showing through the strands.
It’s the most real she’s appeared in front of your eyes until now.
--
When she gets clean at the beach, her hair remains curly; you like it much better. The large, not so white shirt she’s wearing now looks used enough to seem actually from the island and not from the airport’s fashion lounge, she wears plain jeans, you find yourself liking this new image of her, you think you can really trust her now and well, the others will figure it out soon.
She tells you, and you admit you do an excellent job of keeping yourself from bursting.
You fix your eyes on the blue of her shirt, hoping that staring at something will help you keeping your head straight; you’re happy you manage to, because after she’s gone, you actually don’t feel hurt.
Not thinking about whatever happened with that submarine because it isn’t the point, you understand that she has just given up on leaving and on whatever Ben promised her and yeah, you think while she walks away, blue and blonde melting in the green of the trees, you can definitely trust her now, even if you aren’t ever going to understand her.
It doesn’t seem the matter, right now. Finding a way to stay safe actually is.
--
That small kiss makes you stop deadly in your tracks.
It’s a peck, nothing more than it. You barely feel the softness of her lips before she’s gone with Sawyer and it’s like it never happened.
Almost, because Kate’s expression when you meet her eyes briefly witnesses that it happened, alright.
When you kissed Kate, it had been frantic, someway desperate and you can’t really say you remember it with affection.
You think about this one, while you set off again, and you find yourself smiling somewhat fondly, not being able to help it; alright, it didn’t take much to figure out that she cares about you somewhat, she wouldn’t have told you the truth about her true job if she didn’t, but still, that’s a confirm.
You won’t go and try to deny yourself, though; that’s why you settle on telling Kate what you should have told her a while ago. But it is because you just think it’s fair to admit that you do love her and you always will; that’s why when Sawyer comes back you won’t blink an eye when she’ll go back to him. She chose, you’re alright with it; telling her means to move on and you feel like it’s time to.
--
Everything happens in the blink of an eye.
From a second to the following one, they’re divided, scattered on two different sides; one of yours is dead and you can’t even find it in yourself to stop a second and think about it.
You should stop Desmond and ask for some explanation; you start to think that you should have stuck to that resolution of not allowing Charlie to go for that swim, yeah, alright, you should have, except that first you find yourself dealing with three people who you wouldn’t have chosen to go on a rescue team for your life, then Desmond and Sayid are gone on the helicopter and you can’t really ask Desmond now; Kate is gone too and well, you had known it, no hard feelings.
You can’t help feeling completely out of the loop when you get in contact with the freighter and you admit without a problem that you didn’t understand a thing of what’s going on. You just hope Dan knows what he’s doing and you wash your hands of it; you trust Sayid not to fuck anything up and you really can’t start to worry about what happens in a place where you aren’t.
She’s been at your side all the time and you thank her silently for it; she has dealt with Charlotte much better than you and she looks far more at ease than she was before everything went to hell. You’re thankful for it; you can’t remember the last time you felt at ease, right now.
--
The sky is clouded, but impossibly white; she stands in front of you, pale blonde curls falling over her shoulders, that creamy white shirt looking even larger for her than it is, clear blue eyes shining with a sincerity you have never seen coming from her, sadness all over her like a shadow.
It doesn’t matter that what she’s saying about Ben telling her whatever he did doesn’t make sense.
A lot of things that don’t make sense happened until now, right?
The blood on the upper side of her temple, somewhat meddled in her hair, looks too red and too dark; just as the mark on her back had been. Her voice breaks when she tells you that Ben believes she’s his and you can only get even more angry at a sentence like that; if only, you got how really sick Ben can be.
“And he knows how I feel about you.”, she says, her voice so earnest that you forget you had been angry in the first place and you feel every possible sort of shivering shaking you, her eyes honest and impossibly blue. All the layers you remember from that first time behind the glass are gone, from the hair to the neat appearance to the clothes to her self confidence. Nothing is there anymore, she’s in front of you pouring her heart out, probably thinking it’s still all about Kate for you; you think you finally saw how she is and maybe you still can’t say you love what you see. But you can say that you are loving what you see right now and you really can’t not kiss her.
It’s not long, it’s not passionate, you don’t think that long and passionate is what the both of you need; but you feel her lips moving slightly against your own. They are soft against yours, warm even, her hand reaches up to your neck while your hand is still on her cheek, a few strands of hair caught between your fingers.
“He knows where to find me.”, it’s the only thing you can say when it’s over. It’s not that it’s obviously what she needs to hear, it’s not that you need to say it because what else can you say?, but it’s just the plain truth. If you don’t love her, though you’re so damn close to it you can already feel yourself slipping, you sure need her and there’s nothing to question about it.
Her hands are around your shoulders, her fingers grasp your neck, you can feel her relaxing against you when you hold her in return, as close as you can. Her heart beats against your chest, everything is silent; you feel warm, this feels right and when a thought, I need this as much as she does, flashes through your head, you open your eyes, fixing your stare on the pale blond of her hair first and on the whiteness of the sky after. It’s such a contrast to that artificial light and to that glass wall, you can’t believe that what started on such a note would end up being this real. You hold her a bit tighter and decide that you couldn’t possibly care less.
End.