God bless you for even reading it, holy shisus. MADE MY NIGHT. BLESS YOU ANON :’)
Knock knock.
(Who’s there?)
Jehovah’s Witness. FUCK I’M SORRY SOIGJALDKJFLADFHAHAGSJGADlf
I’m going to fall over, anon, I honestly don’t know how to handle compliments anymore;;; Thank you so much!! ;___; It was a very spur of the moment decision when I told myself I wanted to have a change, haha!
I’m eight pounds away from my target weight (I’ve lost twelve pounds in a few months!) and when I get to it, or when I am actually able to feel good about my body, I’m going to chop it all off and get the boyish haircut I’ve always wanted. Hair is super symbolic for me, haha!
Anon, I do hope you know that no matter who you are, I most certainly think that you have a beautiful self for making someone else’s day with something as simple as this. Thank you again. <3
You’ve reached it, now take responsibility for it. HAVE MY CHILD.
no no no jk jk thank you though HAHAHA.
GOD WHAT WHO IS THIS OMFG AND WHY ARE YOU SO BLOODY NICE TO ME I’M GONNA CRY WALSKDJALF JESUS
…Can you tell me who you are so I can love you please ;__; Th-thank you so much just like wow omg compliments I’m screAMING (/__\)
It’s short lived, but it’s enough. He drapes his arm around her, and she crawls into that little crevice. She fits herself inside all the little nooks and crannies — an elbow tucked here, a leg folded there, and she curls up. A tiny ball. Insecurities opened there, sadness laying bare here. A bigger ball. It takes up all of the space inside her nooks and crannies, squeezing her organs. She lays her head on his chest. Mumbles something about being able to fall asleep there, somewhat unintelligible.
A hand finds itself on her shoulder — an experimental stroke here, a soft touch there. She feels it, then. She feels a ball of something, just like hers, through the fabric of his hoodie. It’s moving and active and alive and building up to be something huge, but quiet. It’s quiet. It’s there, but not always. It paces through the back of his mind; sometimes not. Gently, she touches the space where she feels it burning through, fingers fluttering on his sternum. Her eyes close. The ball inside of her hums silently, feeling the energy of his. Feeding off of it. Leeching onto it. Savoring the familiarity of a comrade, it courses through her veins and right into his, until it is one. She feels the hollow emptiness inside her chest and seeks solace in the illusion of an oasis in his. She’s sinking, sinking, an anchor around her ankle, but it’s okay. In the three or four moments it takes for a bird to take flight, for a flake of snow to collide with the earth, for a drop of water to merge itself fully with an ocean — she’s okay. She’s okay, because she fits inside all of his nooks and crannies and has a ball of quiet somethings that sings her to sleep sometimes, just like him, and he smells like a hand held in the dark, like a comforting touch of lips to a forehead. And in those three or four moments, it’s enough.
It’s more than enough.
