( it wounds her, to watch the way he indecisively stands before those lilies as if he's not sure what to do with them, not sure how to look at something so seemingly frail without it wilting in waiting. as he crouches down, she's running her own fingertips along the concrete edge of that rooftop, looking over the skyline that she's come to memorize. )

You could always come by, whenever you wanted. I don't think they'd mind having someone else looking after them. ( a suggestion she knows might render a sigh that in itself speaks the words that'd be soon to follow: 'i can't', 'i shouldn't'. lips tuck in on one another in thought, and again she tugs him elsewhere, determined to keep him on his toes. not to let him drift too far away from her in mind.

a breath breaches the few moments of silence that pass, cheeks a light cherry red from the wind. ) You know what I miss most about Vermont?

The crickets. The sound of them.