If you’d like to read a write-up from our last adventure on the High Sierra Trail, check out the article on IndefinitelyWild!
(one.) she is close enough to touch; if you feel brave enough, foolish enough, you can reach out and brush a strand of fire behind her ear. you’d leave this room without your hand. you think it might be worth it.
(two.) her smile is different, now. it is sharp and slippery and incomplete, and not the one you are used to being thrown to you. every so often you think you catch flirtation in the flash of her teeth; you try not to let your hopes rise, but it’s hard to keep them down.
(three.) without shades of laughter dancing in her eyes, she looks like a whole new woman.
(four.) you keep tossing out snarky comebacks, and she keeps ignoring them. it’s almost familiar, but you know she’s not ignoring you because she knows how it annoys you, now.
(five.) she’s trying to hide how she’s favouring her right side, keeping the weight off her wounded leg as much as possible. you don’t know how to explain that she’ll have to try much harder to become unreadable to you.
(six.) she doesn’t use your name until she’s leaving. it stings deeper than you were expecting — she knows who you are, but she doesn’t know you, not anymore. your fingers curl into fists without your permission. you’re sure the weight of what you’ve lost must be written across your face, but she’s always been able to read you, so that, at least, isn’t new.
(seven.) you want to touch her so badly it sits like an ache in the pit of your stomach.
(eight.) you have no idea how long it will be until you see her again.
(nine.) her approval still means too much to you to be safe.