I left her too long in those dangerous silences.

 

...𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜

I𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚂𝚑𝚎... 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎...




𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝙱𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍.

𝙱𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚢.

𝙱𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 ...

𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛...

𝙷𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 ...




𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 (𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜), 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍.

𝙲𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚝...




𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚊, 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎?

𝙾𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚃𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙾𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚊, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛?




𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎, 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎?

𝚃𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜,

𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 ...

𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚗 ...

𝙾𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜?

𝚃𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢-𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚜 ...

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔-𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛? ...