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∙ ⸰ ⊱ ❀ ⊰ ⸰ ∙
July had finally arrived, rising over the horizon with that large, golden star writing itself on each glimmering ocean wave. Letters enveloped by sea foam arriving at the steps of the shore, waiting patiently for you to read them, read about how much the sun will give you from this point on.
The sun will be generous. It has to be.
You can't handle anymore shadows.
This month, known for its heat and symbolism of summer, also arrived with the repetitive buzzing of your phone on the end table behind your head, the name and photo you gave your mom flashing brightly on its screen in the dimmed space.
You groan, rubbing your eyes and reaching your other hand behind you, immediately being blinded by the sight of her up close and personal and trying to cover her face from the, in her opinion, terrible angle.
"Hey," you say, still suffering from the aftereffects of a deep sleep.
"Hi, sweet girl. How're you doing?"
"Good. Things are calm." His dark hair becomes woven around your fingers as he remains completely oblivious.
"I'm glad to hear. I bet you know why I'm calling."
"I do," you say, braiding three tresses together and then separating them, repeating the same process again.
"Well, we'll be there sometime after lunch. I wanted to leave earlier so that we could all go out to eat, but your brother wouldn't get his tail out of bed. You willing to wait for us?"
"Of course. Don't rush." You watch as his lashes flutter and his brows furrow as you brush a strand out of his face.
"You got it."
The line is severed.
You don't move. You only stare at the ceiling, dreading everything. Having to get up, wake him up, and tell him nothing you want to. You're always so honest with him. But now, you're going to choose not to be. It'd be better for him not to know that his dad actually made it home last night and left this morning without sparing a single word for his son.
All it takes is a single shift of your spine, and Eren stirs, groaning softly and hugging your waist even tighter, the range of his shoulders and biceps broadening. "Not yet..."
He's won with two, lowly spoken words. You've been defeated just like that.
But there's still some fight left in you: "It's almost eleven, and we need to get ready. Mom and Nicky are supposed to be here in just a few hours..."
