a dark wooden pencil and a lip balm stick he would roll around his fingers in between the shuffling of pages. she came most especially to see him.
well, not him exactly, but the dreaming in his eyes that reminded her of the one who had helped her make her gills. the one who had sat her down one day, when she had been younger than she was now, but not by much, and told her everyone loves what they cannot have, and you cannot have me. i’m broken, you know, broken by other loves, other lovers. i’m not fixed enough for you. maybe no one is fixed enough for you. 