[it's contact, it's kindness, and because it doesn't hurt it hangs so oddly on her. she was expecting something stronger, something to prop her up until later. an order, a direction. not this - not this sweetness that burns like disinfectant on a gunshot wound. it hurts in how it doesn't hurt, and even as she responds, wants to desperately hold on, the tears silently escape her eyes and fall, too too much inside of her to not leak out of the cracks somehow.
she's still holding on, uncertain of what to do next.]
no subject
she's still holding on, uncertain of what to do next.]