Paper Hearts

05 | touch

[ dedicated to EmSlough because it was reading her book, paper sails (i swear the title is purely coincidental; this story was inspired by paper sails i swear to god i'm not plagiarizing it please crucify me if you think i am), and her (now deleted) stories on her mature account that inspired me to write this. she's absolutely amazing xx ]

PAPER HEARTS | 05

warning: contains some mature content

As ephemeral as love was, it was built from years of calculation and conviction. It was made to fit the contours of the heart, mold the ridges, and stitch the fissures. It was made to adjust to the smallest of hearts, wrinkled from age or broken from misuse or dessicated from disuse; it was made to adjust to the biggest of hearts too - swelling with so much anger or hate or joy or pain that they threatened to burst. And once the love was conceived - the ability to love was cemented - it was only a matter of fierce determination to make it happen.

Love wasn't for those with paper hearts. Crumpled and thrown away, those hearts would never come back the same. They would still be hearts and they would still be paper, but their edges would be bent and their surfaces rigid. Hearts like those couldn't go through the pain necessary to come back from heartbreak. They wouldn't be able to take the heat from ironing the corners - they would capture the flame and they would cease to scream as it swallowed them entirely. They wouldn't be able to bear the weight of the world on their shoulders, flattening out the imperfections, because they would crumble to their knees. A heart like that would be no Atlas; one paperweight later, it would be torn at the seams. A paper heart, once damaged, would never resurface again. It would go into hiding, fearing any further damage - any further imperfections - to its already ruined frame. A paper heart would be fragile - but love wasn't for the fragile.

It wasn't for the weak.

Love was for those with hearts of steel - those who continued to pick at their wounds as a reminder of their suffering. Steel hearts would face the pain head on, accepting the bruises that surfaced on their skin and the occasional dents in their edges, because those hearts were unafraid. They would be willing to take the leap because love without risk, love without a game, is not love at all. Love wasn't for the weak.

It was for the strong.

It was for those willing to metamorphosize from paper to steel. It was for those willing to wait.

Ellie shut her laptop with a smile.

Love was for those willing to fight for it.

• • •

She was lying in bed in her robe, and nothing but her robe. Ellie frequently did that, normally when Micah wasn't home, but she was feeling awfully on edge. There was a pent up frustration within her that had a pulse hammering between her legs. She could attribute it to two reasons: the night before when Isaac had teased the inside of her thighs and no more, or early in the morning when she'd accidentally caught Micah slipping out of the bathroom in all his stark naked glory. Whichever it was, it had left her breathless throughout the afternoon, and impatient by the end of her shift. When she hopped into bed, hair still damp and skin still moist from the shower, Ellie didn't think twice about parting the cotton folds and letting her hand fall through.

What she was expecting was to hear Micah's snores echoing down the hall and into her bedroom. What she didn't expect was for a sleepy Micah to enter her room just as the bathrobe fell from her shoulders. When she screamed and he startled, she expected him to leave without a question while a blush ran rampant in his cheeks. What she, again, didn't expect was for him to quietly slip inside, shut the door behind him, and inch towards the edge of her bed. It didn't seem like Micah knew why he was doing what he was doing, and neither did Ellie - while she thought of covering herself, she couldn't bring her hands to move from her sides.