Face pressed against the frigid window this morning. The world has gone out of focus now from the condensation from breathing and some moments I can't believe I still am even able to breathe when the ground is quicksand, my limbs are concrete, my heart a shattered mess, my brain a disaster in a bone bowl, rattling around trying to outrun the memories as they come, direct hits, killshots, certain ruin every waking moment.
I turn my cheek away and press my forehead on the pane, hard. Lochlan says my name from the darkness on the other side of the room. I laugh. Save yourself, I tell him, as if it's an option that he didn't already take once but he came back and God bless him for that. I don't know why though. I am not lovable, not manageable or useful or good. I'm kind though. I love magic. I love fire and I love love itself and once I thought everything was going to be okay and goddammit, it was the best feeling in the world.
Kind of like when you press your skin against ice-cold glass.