depth

iii

She's been able to talk to Lexa for most of the days of this fledgling summer, yet it's never quite like seeing her best friend in person. Emojis and well-punctuated sentences are never the same to Clarke, not when she can see Lexa face to face. (Not when she can see her heart to heart.) The blonde works through touch, through presence; when a conversation is not quite enough, it takes its toll on her.

Overdramatic, she chastises herself. It's not like she hasn't met up with Lexa over the summer. Besides, she's functioned fine without her before.

Still. She's – glad. Always glad to have the brunette by her side. She always feels better for it. Always have, always will.

Yeah. She looks over at her best friend, shapes encasing a heart she knows so well. She's glad.

If this were a phone call, for example, she wouldn't be able to see Lexa as she is now: curled up something sweet, leaning into the corner of the bathroom. Legs up folded in themselves, head up high, serene concentration smoothing out the concern that previously rumpled the silk of her skin.

If this were a phone call, Clarke would not be able to see the way Lexa's eyes light up with her laughter. Full moons turn to crescents, and there is still so much light emanating from her. Even just a small response, a chuckle, dry and resigned at Clarke's insistence that they should paint each other's nails, illuminates the bathroom in a honey-sweet glow.

If this were a text, she would not be able to feel the gentle meeting of their hands. Lexa Woods, a warrior in and out of the classroom, has the most careful touch Clarke has ever experienced. Finn is rough; Bellamy's hands are calloused, and Lincoln's soft grip is an easily foiled ruse for the insurmountable strength he stores away. Lexa takes Clarke by surprise every time: one clench of the brunette's biceps is enough to dispel any misconception of weakness – but it's like Lexa takes extra care to convey her tenderness. It hides nothing; it is strong, and it soothes.

If this were a text, there would be no way for Clarke's ears to receive the smooth tone of Lexa's voice. She is freer around the blonde – her measured tone becomes so much more expressive with every passing minute. When her lips are not clamped shut with concentration – "I never fault it, but I was never brought up on fashion parades and make-up tutorials, Clarke" – they form words of memory, words of wit. An anecdote on a particularly amusing experience in the brunette's Introduction to Politics class brings to life a world Clarke can only witness second-hand. Lexa's sharp asides on the antics of her classmates rumble and fly low, while her impressions use an octave Clarke rarely hears outside of their personal conversations. The blonde wasn't there for any of it, but she feels she could have been. She could paint it, paint it with the colours that burst through Lexa's words. If this were a text, she would be forced to paint in monochrome.

But this is not a text, or a phone call. It's not even a Skype call – though God knows why they'd even attempt to suffer through those when the brunette is only ten minutes away. No, this is the real thing.

'Glad' doesn't quite cut it.

A natural lull in their conversation – they don't feel stifled, they don't feel the need to plug the gaps with words. They are content to just be.

Away from her uneasiness around her boyfriend, Clarke allows herself to be.

She watches as Lexa applies a rose pink varnish to her nails – she watches, and smiles, her grin tipped with the memories of their earlier fun.

There's something freeing about being alone with Lexa – that, the blonde can certainly attest to. Lexa adjusts her hold on Clarke's hand; simultaneous breathing. The brunette's exhale is quieter. Clarke immerses herself in the sound, recalls the laughter she so loves that had bubbled out from the brunette's lungs. Earlier times in the art room – her art room.