[ fickle? a wretched scoff passes her lips before she can stop it, a feeling of twisted longing that carves out a place in her chest. she can almost see the man she loves in him, a thousand miles out of reach. calling her fickle. reflections of one another. ]
You will regret this.
[ to herself. to him. rather than take his hand, she rakes her own up her face and into her hair, pulled free of its sleeping plait. deep breath, then, in and out—shaky on the exhale.
if she goes with him, reaches 221B, perhaps then her ring. perhaps, then, her key with which she can escape this frayed London and return home. she has to chance it.
her voice is low and level and dull: ] If we are to go, let us go.
no subject
You will regret this.
[ to herself. to him. rather than take his hand, she rakes her own up her face and into her hair, pulled free of its sleeping plait. deep breath, then, in and out—shaky on the exhale.
if she goes with him, reaches 221B, perhaps then her ring. perhaps, then, her key with which she can escape this frayed London and return home. she has to chance it.
her voice is low and level and dull: ] If we are to go, let us go.