プレイリスト

一 ❅
二 ❅
三 ❅

I. II. III. IV. V.

ѕσηgвιя∂:

     _{⊰☼⊱ ;            Make yourself comfortable. Moron. If only it were that simple, is all she can manage to think. Her hands are freed from the possession of dampened clothing and her fingers rush to the edges of the shirt she’s sporting, tugging downwards and holding there; added security to exposed legs that still tremble from the cold. She pauses for a moment and stares at the window. Watches, intently, with half-lidded eyes how slowly yet still so violently the rain is to pound against the window and wash away what clings to the foggy glass. Another blink of light, though, and she flutters her eyes rapidly and turns away. Hair falls into her face. Bothersome, but she doesn’t want to move her hands and so she blows at the strands instead.} 

                         <sub>” .. if you want to make some, then I would have some, too. ” But the truth is that she doesn’t particularly have an appetite of any kind. Might be a good idea, though, since she’s still cold. Her voice slips nothing more than the same, monotone words; no faltering in pitch, in weakness. She wants to sit somewhere. Her knees are trembling. 

                          She can’t help but to notice that his mood has changed significantly since they had met up an hour or so ago. While hers has been sour and bleak this entire time, he had started out so chipper and eager to see her — and now his voice is nearly lost, just as hers. It seems that all she has done is bring him down with her — delved him into the toxicity in which she reeks. Bothersome, bothersome, always so bothersome. They would have been better off not running into each other.
                         .. He would have been better off not running into her.</sub> 

_{Fingers reach out in search of an adequate surface to drum across and find the top of his dresser. A nervous habit, miming playing the piano against whatever surface available. Sometimes he even notices himself doing it against his own thigh when there isn’t an appropriate surface. It’s to be expected, perhaps – playing piano is where he’s most comfortable; it’s what soothes him. It makes sense that he’d revert to that when he’s nervous, or upset.}

_{She agrees to his offer and he’s glad to have something to do, at least. Better than sitting around and worrying over whether or not he’ll say the wrong thing again. Hand retreats to his side as he looks at her face or in the general vicinity – surely, eyes don’t wander lower than her neck. He doesn’t want to upset her again.}

     _{❄~ “Okay. You can wait in the living room, if you want. Wrap up in a blanket or something; you look cold.”}

_{He reaches out, tentatively, to brush a damp lock of hair away from her face. Like a child, cautiously petting a dog that he’s not sure will bite. This will pass, he’s sure, he’s not planning on being hesitant to touch his own girlfriend forever – but for now he can’t help himself. He nods and gives what he hopes is a gentle smile before leaving to go to the kitchen. A sign that he’s trying, at the very least.}