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“Oh, my Seasons. "You disarm me." Oh, my Seasons. Who knew the color blue could smolder? His eyes held mine, feasted on them. No. Not feasted. He wanted that with her, not with me. At any rate, my breathing stalled. I could lose my mind to that face, his expression strumming a hundred truths from me, whether I liked it or not. "What do you wish for?" he asked. For my mother to get better. For her to look at me without grabbing that mallet. For people to see me as a real girl. For them to believe it. For me to believe it. For you to believe it.” — Natalia Jaster
Oh, my Seasons.
"You disarm me."
Oh, my Seasons.
Who knew the color blue could smolder? His eyes held mine, feasted on them.
No. Not feasted. He wanted that with her, not with me.
At any rate, my breathing stalled. I could lose my mind to that face, his expression strumming a hundred truths from me, whether I liked it or not.
"What do you wish for?" he asked.
For my mother to get better.
For her to look at me without grabbing that mallet.
For people to see me as a real girl. For them to believe it.
For me to believe it.
For you to believe it.