Last night—or morning, or day, the hours have just blended together in this foggy world of mine—I was sitting with my head in my hands, and Naomi walked up to me, shakily holding a cup of coffee.
“Here, drink.”
I took it.
“No thank you?”
I sipped quietly.
“Talk to me, X.”
Serenity never called me that, or anything, in fact.
“We're not doing this again, and don’t make me dump this on you. Sure, it’s pretty freaking cold, but it’ll still dampen those pants of yours.”
Slowly, I turned to look at her, watching the way her face twisted into something aged, like old cheddar. Then, looking down at my blood stained laces, I muttered, more to myself than anyone around me, “I’m so fucking sorry.”
