✎ᝰ. stained fingertips

︿︿︿︿︿❀̫᤺᤺ˀᤢ⃟ᵕ๎ꯨ≋ࣳ۬˶ࣳۜۘۜᷤᷭᷠᨑ︿︿︿︿︿

﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́ ༅˻˳˯ₑ❛░⃟ ⃟°˟̫· · · ·

▒𖧷̷۪۪ᰰ⃟   ᭙ꫀꪶ ᥴꪮꪑꫀ 𝕥ꪮ ꪑꪗ ડ𝕥ꪮ𝕣ꪗ! ❀်ིི۪۪۫۫⸼̥꒰°⃘۪۪̥̩̥◌ ۪۪۪۫

                                                      ❁፧⿴⃟

- ̗̀↳♡̷̷ ˊ- ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁

ꕤ᳕҇ᨒ*̥ꕤ᳕҇ᨒ⋆*̥ᨒ

| ⃝᭣࿆ ρrᥱ᥎ι᥆ᥙ᥉ ᥴhᥲρtᥱr         ᥒᥱ᥊t ᥴhᥲρtᥱr | ⃝᭣࿆

. . . ❀⃟- ̗̀ะ;༣ཾ྄∘ . . .

     · · · · ﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́﹏̈́ ༅˻˳˯ₑ❛░⃟ ⃟°˟̫

     . .╭──࿎࿎─ ︿︿︿︿︿︿ .   .   .   .   .   .

      . .┊ ‹‹❛❀ Title: From the Dining Table

     . .┊✎｡｡｡Author: olive

     . .┊ꕤ᳕҇ ░ Started: Sept. 25, 2024

      . .┊◝໋࣮ᬄ゚꫶   Finished:

     . .╰─── ⃟ੂ۪͙۫ׄꦿ๑࿐ ︶︶︶︶︶︶ ♡⃕ ⌇. . .

     . . . . . . ┊⿻ Genre: literary fiction

     . . . . . . ┊⿻ Characters/pairing: G x B

     . . . . . . ┊⿻ Plot: first love, never finished

     . . . . . . ┊⿻ Warnings: n/a

     . . . . . . ┊⿻ Author's note:

      . . . . . . ╰──༄ ‧₊˚───── ─── ❨❀❩

❝ Pier ed how she used to lean against his shoulder like that, used to draw vines and runes and constellations across his arms, trying to make sense out of skin and silence. ❞↷ˊ-

⃟ੂ۪͙۫ׄꦿ๑࿐ ︶︶︶︶︶︶ ♡⃕ ⌇. . .

. . . ❀⃟- ̗̀ะ;༣ཾ྄∘ . . .

ᥴhᥲρtᥱr 𝙸

𝓣he café smelled of cloves, warm milk, and scorched sugar.

Outside, it’s gray–clouds stitching together tightly across the sky like an old wound refusing to heal. Rain had been threatening for hours but refused to fall, as if the sky couldn’t quite let go.

Inside, Lena curled into the corner of the worn velvet couch, her boots kicked off and socks mismatched. Nik sat beside her, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, fingers trailing along her shoulder like he’s plucking a ghost off her skin.

Between them, a chipped ceramic palette, a tiny brush, and her journal–open to a page inked with flower sketches and ancient annotations in small, haunted handwriting.

“I forgot how much I missed this place,” she muttered, barely audible over the café’s soft jazz and the low murmur of other people’s lives unfolding around them.

Nik leaned down and brushed his nose against her temple. “You always say that.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not still true.”

She dipped the brush in the jar of black ink, dabbing it gently on the back of his hand.

A crescent moon. A bleeding tulip. A tiny lock without a key.

He watched her work, unflinching. He doesn’t ask. Nik was good like that–gentle in the ways she didn’t know how to ask for.

“Planning to mark up my entire arm again?” he asked with a small grin.

She shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on if you can sit still this time.”

Outside, the sky shifted to bone-white, the kind of light that made everything inside appear too soft; too easy to break.

Across the street, Pier stood motionless just beyond the glass.

His coffee had gone cold in his hand, but he didn’t notice.

He only sees her.

There was something cruel in the warmth that framed her. The way her head fit so perfectly against Nik’s shoulder. The lazy curve of her smile.

It wasn’t for him anymore.

But Pier ed how she used to lean against his shoulder like that, used to draw vines and runes and constellations across his arms, trying to make sense out of skin and silence.

Lena shifted, balancing her sketchbook on her knees. “Do you what the meaning of the lilac is?” she asked, unprompted, eyes focused on her ink-stained fingers.

Nik hesitated, “I…don’t know. I’m not you, Lena.”

She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Purple lilacs mean first love,” she said. “White ones mean innocence.”

“Hm,” Nik replied. “I’m guessing you don’t use white very often.”

“No, not anymore.”

Nik traced a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear. “Did someone give you lilacs once?”

Lena didn’t answer. She stared out the window, her breath catching for a short second. But Pier was already gone as if her glance burned him out of existence.

Nik followed her gaze, finding nothing but reflections–other couples, other stories.

He gently took her ink-stained hand in his. “What are you thinking about?”

She shook her head and let the silence swallow her answer.

“I had a dream last night,” she said instead.

Nik smiled. “Good or bad?”

She shrugged. “Neither. Just real. You were laughing, I was painting. Everything felt…unfinished.”

Nik exhaled slowly. “You always talk like life is one big metaphor.”

“That’s because it is,” she hummed, resting her head on his chest and listening to the steadiness of his heart.

Across town, Pier dropped his untouched coffee into a bin and walked until his legs ached. He didn’t know where he was going.

Only that he had to leave.

If he stayed, he might have walked in. Might have sat across from her and asked if she still carried her flower journal and still painted meanings on people as if language wasn’t enough.

He might have asked her if she ed.

He knew he wouldn’t have survived her answer.

ꕤ᳕҇ᨒ*̥ꕤ᳕҇ᨒ⋆*̥ᨒ

. . . . . . . . .˚ೃ(‧₊˚.ꦿ)⨾ੈ . . . . . . . . . . . .

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

    ▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁   

leaving the table for now

keep your heart messy 🥀

ˏ ࣱ۪۪̥࣭࣮ࣩࣴ｡観賀 ◦۪۪̥

ㅤ ︶︶︶ ❀

ᥒᥱ᥊t ᥴhᥲρtᥱr | ⃝᭣࿆

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:copyright: Template credits to Vivi . ❀

images don’t belong to me. they were found on pinterest.