[ one day. one day is all it takes for the bandages he's used to piece himself together again to loosen enough for him to start shattering again, piece by piece.
he has never been one for optimism, always carrying the tendency to think of the worst first, and this... this has been worst-case scenario right from the start. Peter's gone, and no matter how much he searches, he just won't answer. and what chance does he have, to find someone who can scale walls and buildings, move from one block to another within the span of seconds, if he doesn't want to be found?
he doesn't know why he walks there, to the place he visited once before, when he had got the book for Olivia and ended up staying to chat with her pretend-husband instead — suddenly he's there, sitting on the sidewalk outside the building, too tired to leave, too desperate to move away.
he glances at the notebook he's carrying, full of writing — originally meant to contain all the places he's looked, but now it only reads variations of make sure he's alive and he's fine, the last of which he underlines, once, twice. circles it, his pen red like blood on the white page.
he barely even notices the way his lungs feel heavy, unable to draw breaths; the way his vision fills with small, black dots. panic has been his constant companion for the last twenty-four hours and more — is it any wonder he's losing the fight, now?
(for someone who can feel emotions, the onslaught of panicanxietydespairworryangerpanic is probably somewhat overwhelming.) ]
OLIVIA ➙ march 19
he has never been one for optimism, always carrying the tendency to think of the worst first, and this... this has been worst-case scenario right from the start. Peter's gone, and no matter how much he searches, he just won't answer. and what chance does he have, to find someone who can scale walls and buildings, move from one block to another within the span of seconds, if he doesn't want to be found?
he doesn't know why he walks there, to the place he visited once before, when he had got the book for Olivia and ended up staying to chat with her pretend-husband instead — suddenly he's there, sitting on the sidewalk outside the building, too tired to leave, too desperate to move away.
he glances at the notebook he's carrying, full of writing — originally meant to contain all the places he's looked, but now it only reads variations of make sure he's alive and he's fine, the last of which he underlines, once, twice. circles it, his pen red like blood on the white page.
he barely even notices the way his lungs feel heavy, unable to draw breaths; the way his vision fills with small, black dots. panic has been his constant companion for the last twenty-four hours and more — is it any wonder he's losing the fight, now?
(for someone who can feel emotions, the onslaught of panicanxietydespairworryangerpanic is probably somewhat overwhelming.) ]