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Home.
This is where your mind goes, inevitably, when you think of that one word, so small—four letters—and yet so encompassing. It nestles warmly in your chest like a hearty broth, and you think—yes, you could make a life like this. Here, with your arms solidly around her, your face buried in the golden curls of her hair, in the house—the home—you have both made, fortified by the losses you have overcome together.
You listen to her breath, slow and even, clearly sleeping soundly in your arms, and it's dizzying, the way you feel about it. About her. About all of this. There is another word for it, too, something warm and comfortable and terrifying all at once. That small, four-letter word that means you're forever bound, dedicated, that the mark she has left on you is one of permanence.
You have said the word before, but not like this, whispered into her shoulder like a prayer.
Forever. That's the part that sticks with you, in the thin moonlight filtering through the window. It means forever. Somehow that thought is calming, as you close your eyes.
—when you open them again, the word forever seems like a death sentence. It is the blade on the guillotine shining in the morning light. It is the last word uttered before the world dies. It is a weight heavy on your heart, and you think, if I could just protect her from this, if only you could hold her like this through the end of the world—
Your eyes adjust.
Your face is still buried in golden hair, but something has changed; the light of morning is too bright, the wind on your face is too strong—
Wind.
It's as if your heart tumbles out of your chest and shatters on the ground below, miles and miles below, and all at once, you realize where you are. The house in Hateno is little more than an inkblot on a page, so far down from where you sit.
The enormous dragon you sit atop doesn't seem to care that you're there—or perhaps she doesn't notice. You are so small. The feeling that wells within you, on the other hand, is so big, so entirely all-encompassing, that there are no words or thoughts that could possibly contain it all. This hollow feeling within you, this devastating use of the word forever, it rocks you to your very core, and maybe if you weren't so wrung-out from the shock of it, you would have a tear left to shed. A shred of misery to spare for this moment.
You have none.
That same four-letter feeling twists in your chest, even now, and you wonder if it will hurt forever, if the word love will forever be synonymous with the heartache of loss.
Bearing no answer, cursing the star-crossed inevitability of fate, you bury your face in her hair once more, as she snakes mercilessly across the sky.
This is where your mind goes, inevitably, when you think of that one word, so small—four letters—and yet so encompassing. It nestles warmly in your chest like a hearty broth, and you think—yes, you could make a life like this. Here, with your arms solidly around her, your face buried in the golden curls of her hair, in the house—the home—you have both made, fortified by the losses you have overcome together.
You listen to her breath, slow and even, clearly sleeping soundly in your arms, and it's dizzying, the way you feel about it. About her. About all of this. There is another word for it, too, something warm and comfortable and terrifying all at once. That small, four-letter word that means you're forever bound, dedicated, that the mark she has left on you is one of permanence.
You have said the word before, but not like this, whispered into her shoulder like a prayer.
Forever. That's the part that sticks with you, in the thin moonlight filtering through the window. It means forever. Somehow that thought is calming, as you close your eyes.
—when you open them again, the word forever seems like a death sentence. It is the blade on the guillotine shining in the morning light. It is the last word uttered before the world dies. It is a weight heavy on your heart, and you think, if I could just protect her from this, if only you could hold her like this through the end of the world—
Your eyes adjust.
Your face is still buried in golden hair, but something has changed; the light of morning is too bright, the wind on your face is too strong—
Wind.
It's as if your heart tumbles out of your chest and shatters on the ground below, miles and miles below, and all at once, you realize where you are. The house in Hateno is little more than an inkblot on a page, so far down from where you sit.
The enormous dragon you sit atop doesn't seem to care that you're there—or perhaps she doesn't notice. You are so small. The feeling that wells within you, on the other hand, is so big, so entirely all-encompassing, that there are no words or thoughts that could possibly contain it all. This hollow feeling within you, this devastating use of the word forever, it rocks you to your very core, and maybe if you weren't so wrung-out from the shock of it, you would have a tear left to shed. A shred of misery to spare for this moment.
You have none.
That same four-letter feeling twists in your chest, even now, and you wonder if it will hurt forever, if the word love will forever be synonymous with the heartache of loss.
Bearing no answer, cursing the star-crossed inevitability of fate, you bury your face in her hair once more, as she snakes mercilessly across the sky.