rosa belle

È il tempo che tu hai perduto per la tua rosa che ha reso la tua rosa così importante.
Si narra che l'usignolo amasse la rosa da abbracciarla così tanto che le spine gli trafissero il cuore.
—  Oscar Wilde

Sometimes it got too much.

The noise, the light, the people.

It felt like a sensory overload suffocating him, drowning him and pulling him down and down and down until all he could do was choke.

On those days Draco would hide away, hide far away from the noise and the people and the pain - hugging his knees and rocking back and forth, counting from one to ten and ten to one and one to -

On those days Draco would cry until he felt like he couldn’t move anymore, his chest heaving and the tears on his cheeks burning.

On those days he often couldn’t even remember what set him off, what pulled him down, all focused on it, on life, being too much.

Lately, though, it had changed.

There was someone holding his hand, breathing with him in the dark. Someone whispering meaningless soft words against his skin, rubbing their nose against his whenever it got too much.

Someone to kiss him with each number when he counted from one to ten and ten to one and one to -

So yeah, sometimes it got too much.

But with Potter next to him, breathing with him, holding him close - he knew he’d be fine. He’ll be alright.

Eventually.

Il fiore più romantico non é la rosa.
Il fiore più romantico è il girasole, perché ha occhi solo per il suo amore, il sole.
E passa tutta la sua vita a guardarlo, senza mai stancarsi.
Nonostante abbia la consapevolezza che non potrà mai toccarlo, non potrà mai appartenergli.
—  Volevoimparareavolare (scritta da me)

Secondo alcune leggende, il mare è la dimora di tutto ciò che abbiamo perduto, di quello che non abbiamo avuto, dei desideri infranti, dei dolori, delle lacrime che abbiamo versato.

- Osho