❝In which two people call up a helpline in order to find someone just as broken as they are. ❞
"Does...does it bother you that my dad's in prison for murder?"
"Well, judging by the fact that I moved away from America to get away from the memory of a...
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Watching Elliot cry was like witnessing the birth of a flower, fragile and hesitant as it slowly showed its true colours to the world after being buried underground for so long. It was a somewhat beautiful and tragic event, both as painful as it was freeing. And she knew the feeling of being buried, knew the suffocation of the surrounding earth and the sudden fear to bloom. To become comfortable in the darkness as it became the colour of her petals. Petals that were once made of sunshine.
To struggle in silence as people crushed her to pieces, assuming that, just because she wasn't on the surface, she wasn't alive.
But now Elliot was blooming, emerging from the cage of soil as if it had never been confining in the first place, tears watering his own growth as he finally opened up towards the sun. And it made Isabella wonder why she was still partially underground. Still that small, green tulip bud that lacked the strength it took to make that final step to flower. But the only way to bloom was to open her petals. To truly reveal her colours. To the world. Or, at least, to the small section of the world that cared enough to notice.
"You know, Elliot. When my...when my dad died I would...I would always go to his grave and speak to him like he was still here."
