There's a lot of things about Miguel that make Gwen want to scream sometimes. A lot of things that she feels so strongly, with such certainty, that he's wrong about. A lot of things he's done that she wishes he hadn't, that really, truly scared her. So many ways to fault him.
But this—the bone-deep grief, the feeling of fault and responsibility... it's achingly familiar in a way that makes her want to run away. It makes so much easier than she'd like to see why he does all those things, all those stupid things that make her want to shout in his face until he takes her seriously.
Your whole universe is a high price to pay for a mistake.
And so is the rest of the world she lived in.
Gwen doesn't run away. She folds her arms a little tighter, shrinking into her sweater. "I-I don't really know the custom well, but... it looks nice. I think you made the best of it."
Another beat of quiet, where Gwen chews on her lip hard enough it's a miracle she doesn't hurt herself, before she finally turns around so her back's against the door frame so she's not even looking at Miguel facing away from her.
"I don't really... remember, Peter's funeral. It happened the day after I—" she swallows, "after what happened. Religious traditions. So."
It all went by in a dissociative blur. The whole world had been so very dark and desaturated, a dull canvas of blacks and greys and blues. She remembers grit under her nails and not being sure if that was from the rubble, or from the spade when the family were called to bury the casket. She remembers shrinking away from May trying to hug her. She remembers her father gripping her hand so tight it hurt, like he was scared he was going to lose her too. She remembers thinking I'm sorry and this is all my fault on repeat.
no subject
There's a lot of things about Miguel that make Gwen want to scream sometimes. A lot of things that she feels so strongly, with such certainty, that he's wrong about. A lot of things he's done that she wishes he hadn't, that really, truly scared her. So many ways to fault him.
But this—the bone-deep grief, the feeling of fault and responsibility... it's achingly familiar in a way that makes her want to run away. It makes so much easier than she'd like to see why he does all those things, all those stupid things that make her want to shout in his face until he takes her seriously.
Your whole universe is a high price to pay for a mistake.
And so is the rest of the world she lived in.
Gwen doesn't run away. She folds her arms a little tighter, shrinking into her sweater. "I-I don't really know the custom well, but... it looks nice. I think you made the best of it."
Another beat of quiet, where Gwen chews on her lip hard enough it's a miracle she doesn't hurt herself, before she finally turns around so her back's against the door frame so she's not even looking at Miguel facing away from her.
"I don't really... remember, Peter's funeral. It happened the day after I—" she swallows, "after what happened. Religious traditions. So."
It all went by in a dissociative blur. The whole world had been so very dark and desaturated, a dull canvas of blacks and greys and blues. She remembers grit under her nails and not being sure if that was from the rubble, or from the spade when the family were called to bury the casket. She remembers shrinking away from May trying to hug her. She remembers her father gripping her hand so tight it hurt, like he was scared he was going to lose her too. She remembers thinking I'm sorry and this is all my fault on repeat.
Everything else is gone, now.