a proposal, of sorts. ✔️

sixteen

I stumble into my room hours later, weighed down by cherry whiskey and tears. My mouth and head are full of cotton, their dryness gifted by my eyes and nose, dripping across my face. It takes everything in me to propel myself into my bed, uncaring of removing my pants or corset. Face down into dirty sheets, I fall asleep uneasily.

There isn't daylight streaming through my windows when I wake up, which assists in my feeble maneuvering through my room. My head feels like it's been cracked in two but I have enough wherewithal to realize I'm not alone.

"Trystan?" I shriek at the body laying next to mine. He still seems clothed — thank fuck — but I could not imagine being in a state of mind to allow him anywhere near me last night. He doesn't stir at my noise so I settle on poking him in the eyes.

He winces and then: "what the fuck are you doing?"

I beam for a moment before realizing it only hurts my head. "Why are you in my bed?"

Rubbing his eyes, he decides to deign me with a reply. "You came home drunk. Was worried you'd choke on your own vomit."

"That could've been accomplished without you being in my bed," I point out, unimpressed.

He shrugs. "Probably."

I push him off the bed. He hadn't gotten under my sheets, which I now notice are tucked around me, so he falls off easily.

"Ow," he groans. I have no sympathy because my memory's begin to stir and all I can picture is his nonchalance in my confrontation yesterday.

"Why are you here? Why did you come to check on me? You made it clear that you didn't care for me just yesterday." I voice my thoughts before my mind catches up.

"That was actually four days ago." He responds from the ground. I roll over and hang my head off of my bed so that I can see his face.

"That's not the point."

He sighs as he catches my eyes. His shirt is rumpled and the circles under his eyes are uncharacteristically dark. "I regret the way I handled our conversation the other day."

"That's what brought you here? Regret?" My heart sinks disappointingly.

He holds my gaze for a few moments before responding. "No. But you're not ready for the truth."

"What truth?" My eyebrows are furrowed but my confusion is outweighed by the fear of his answer.

He pushes off against my darkwood floors, hiding a nervous finger by scratching the back of his neck. "That truth is one you're not ready for."

He holds out a hand, cupped backwards as if there's something in it. I raise an eyebrow, but finally mirror his actions and hold out my own hand. Something golden and shiny drops into it, and I bring it closer to inspect it.

"A necklace. To replace your emerald one." It catches in the lamplight, glowing rainbow. Iridescent.

"It's beautiful," is all I can manage to say before he leaves my room. He couldn't have bought this with the household's finances — I would've noticed. He must've spent his salary money on this, a thought that contained more of an apology in it than his words ever could.