there's ice buzzing through her veins and aspen's teeth chatter as she approaches the wooden doors. her hand trembles as she reaches for the handle, but she ignores it
(because if she doesn't acknowledge the numbness, it'll disappear; it's notrealnotrealnotreal)
—and it happens every morning, anyways, like a stubborn habit.
a sudden gush of warm air envelopes aspen and she relishes in the fleeting feeling of thawing.
it's a peculiar thing, relief.
but it can't last, because nothing good is permanent, and aspen's always losing things, losing people, like a clumsy, naïve little girl with cotton candy dreams and eyes filled with glitter and—
aspen thinks of a time long gone, of indian summers, of flushed cheeks and sticky fingers; a rush of the past.
a time before smiling became an impossible effort and happiness wasn't a strange, foreign concept.
a time before she lost him.
(lost everything, really, because he was always her whole world, and isn't that the sad truth?)
YOU ARE READING
drops of mercury
Historia Cortashe's just a little bit lost on her way to happily ever after, armed with a heart that's spinning out of control.
