(SE) a whisper in our ear, or a bottle for our fears

don't you know i'm no good for you?

To not talk about it has some sort of deep set panic settling back in his stomach. Nate readjusts, Sunjata remains with his head buried against his arms. If they don’t talk about it how would it get better? How could they pretend to go back to normal? But it seems that Nate has an answer for that, too, one that has a cold and void yawning chasm growing in his chest, like his heart has been frozen over, a thump of lead landing within it and dragging it down into ghostlike fingers.

He rubs his eyes on his arms again, wiping away the tears that plague him and puff up his eyes, finally managing to lift his chin to rest it on the very same tattooed arms, keeping himself closed off, taking a sharp shuddering inhale as if that might ground him. It doesn’t, and he finds himself floundering as he tries to get himself put together, tries to get the words to come out.

I understand. He manages, tilting his head so that his cheek rests against that starry tattooed arm, closing his eyes tight as the storm continues to rage on. How… How long? He supposes the answer is ‘however long feels right’ or ‘I don’t know’ which he’d find to be fair answers… But it still hurts. And if Nate wasn't at the house, gone and disappeared somewhere?

What will he do?

i've learned to lose, you can't afford to

SUNJATA