[ there is a numbness creeping upon her unlike any she had ever felt before. she can count the number of times she'd fallen in love on one hand, and each had gone and passed like the setting sun. each time her heart had broken, but as the world continued to spin and the sun continued to rise, she had learned, too, to spin and rise again. and though each love is different, and she knows as well as anyone that one can never truly compare to the other, she had never once thought it possible to hold two loves at once, when her heart at times feels unable to contain even just the one. here again she feels her heart breaking, but a part of her is beginning to wonder if it had not already been doing so in these past few weeks, where here now the final pieces seem to splinter off, leaving behind a hollowness that threatens to consume.
achilles, too, had been a lovely distraction. a balm to soothe her aching heart, when another among them had left her broken and healing. he was perfect in every which way, delighting her with affection, spoiling her with attention. he was the exact combination of everything she had been too ashamed to ever ask for in another, and that large, selfish part of her indulged where a wiser woman might have stepped back to better assess it all.
perhaps she only has herself to blame. perhaps if she had been stronger, smarter, less selfish — perhaps she could have spared them both. ]
But still, you love him more...
[ her words now are not confused, not edged with the sharpness of accusation. now they are quiet and cold, like the winter dessert around them.
half my heart, he said. my second self.
there remains between them a foot or two of empty space, breached only by his hands hoping to meet hers. but her limbs feel heavy, and her heart heavier still. she cannot bring herself to reach out and take what she no longer feels is hers. ]
What is a wife to you, Achilles? [ it seems now all she can ask for is clarification, enlightenment. but never before had she thought that their views did not align, or that he might consider one to be mutually exclusive from the other.
she realizes her mistake now, of course, and though a large part of her already knows... still she seeks to hear it, woven with the words she has thus far become so susceptible to. ]
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achilles, too, had been a lovely distraction. a balm to soothe her aching heart, when another among them had left her broken and healing. he was perfect in every which way, delighting her with affection, spoiling her with attention. he was the exact combination of everything she had been too ashamed to ever ask for in another, and that large, selfish part of her indulged where a wiser woman might have stepped back to better assess it all.
perhaps she only has herself to blame. perhaps if she had been stronger, smarter, less selfish — perhaps she could have spared them both. ]
But still, you love him more...
[ her words now are not confused, not edged with the sharpness of accusation. now they are quiet and cold, like the winter dessert around them.
half my heart, he said. my second self.
there remains between them a foot or two of empty space, breached only by his hands hoping to meet hers. but her limbs feel heavy, and her heart heavier still. she cannot bring herself to reach out and take what she no longer feels is hers. ]
What is a wife to you, Achilles? [ it seems now all she can ask for is clarification, enlightenment. but never before had she thought that their views did not align, or that he might consider one to be mutually exclusive from the other.
she realizes her mistake now, of course, and though a large part of her already knows... still she seeks to hear it, woven with the words she has thus far become so susceptible to. ]