saltedsalad
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And even though the woman never said it back, Rumi loved her. She loved her with ever fiber of her being because that was the woman who raised her. Because that was the woman she ran to as a small child and told her about the beautiful butterfly she saw at the garden. Because that was the woman who came home after hunting demons alone beaten and bruised and exhausted who still looked at Rumi with a quiet care in her eyes despite her exhaustion.
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author puts his trans guilt and mommy issues onto rumi and her patterns at 2 am
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"Even the brightest flowers must grow through the darkness. Darkness is inevitable. We need to learn to coexist with the darkness. It won’t linger on forever." - Bhuwan Thapaliya
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They were so connected, planets orbiting around eachother.
She couldn't describe the ache in her chest looking at the two. Was it jealousy? Longing? She wasn't jealous; that wouldn't make sense. It wasn't like she wanted to be one of them—not at all—she wanted to be there, beside them, listening to Zoey.
She always had, even when they were kids, she would watch those two from afar, wishing to be a star in their general atmosphere.
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She wishes, she yearns to say she will die without regret– but that would be another meaningless lie.
(The truth is that Rumi will regret it all. The moments she failed, the moments she hurt, the moments she destroyed without intention. But most of all, she will regret not telling them how important they are to her.)
Rumi was nothing if not destruction poorly disguised in human flesh. These bones were never meant to belong to a demon, she was an amalgamation of hate and something other. Something wrong.
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he·ro
/ˈhirō,ˈhērō/
noun
a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.Rumi had always wondered what it’d be like to be considered as such. She was always reading about the knights in shining armor, the superheroes that saved the day– they were perfect, even with their flaws. They were born glistening in the sun rays. They were born different, but those differences were used to help those around them– not harm. They were able to provide something useful with their mistakes. Their shame was something that was desired, not loathed. Not something that would make others wince in disgust when they found out.
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Love, it was a word that seemed decades away. Ivan would try to reach for it, he would bring his hand as high as he could— but it was futile. His arm grew tired and his fingers didn’t even graze the concept.