( futile. she watches as her words burrow themselves into him, as they conquer him so easily, and she can't help but to think: that's it? after all he's been through, all of the bullets and the gashes, all of the loss and shrapnel buried permanently within bone, he can't give her any more than that? she deflates, and it's not so much her anger dissipating as her understanding that she has no where left to put it. that she was only hurting herself further, thinking anything she says could mean anything at all. that she could get through that skull of his when even a bullet couldn't.
that blurring well of tears builds traitorously at her lash line, giving her away. she was always giving herself away, to him.
when she finally manages to find her voice again it's at the back of her throat, exasperated, straining from her as if with every last bit of breath she has. like that stubborn fight within her is so close to being snuffed out, but there's a finality, still. )
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that blurring well of tears builds traitorously at her lash line, giving her away. she was always giving herself away, to him.
when she finally manages to find her voice again it's at the back of her throat, exasperated, straining from her as if with every last bit of breath she has. like that stubborn fight within her is so close to being snuffed out, but there's a finality, still. )
Then be fucking better.