This is pretending that Bellamy could hear Clarke talking all those years, she just can’t hear him responding, and that the ship at the end is them coming back to Earth.
“Bellamy…are you up
there? Are you alive? Is anyone alive?”
“I only woke up
yesterday. At least, I think it was yesterday. I barely made it into the bunker
in time, but I made it. And the computer says it’s been three days since the
radiation hit, and I was so hungry I thought I might die. Please tell me you
“Bellamy, my mom was
right. In a way. My face is disgusting, covered in boils. You’d be laughing at
me…probably. Because she was right but so were you. I’m not dead Bellamy. I
hope you aren’t either.”
His fingers slammed on the respond button, pushing it down
to the point of it feeling like it would crack from the pressure.
Dear love, I don’t think you understand the power you have over me. How easily you can make my day or ruin my week by a simple text. You have the power to let me grow or to tear me down and you don’t even realise
It was in the late hours of the night, when the trousers
were already half buttoned up, that the words ‘you could stay’ stalled the fingers and gave birth to a thought. A
tentative whispered thought of maybe.
It was during minutes so tense and so vulnerable, when they
were each lying on their side of the bed not sleeping and not talking either,
that the thought of maybe trembled
It was in the stilted moments, when the nervousness
thickened and a shaky laugh escaped from a closed up throat shattering the
tension, that the thought of maybe solidified.
It was in the instant, when a hand found a hand and
hesitated until warm unsure fingers entwined and squeezed ever so gently, that the
thought of maybe grew louder.
It was in the dark of the night, when the sleepy body finally
heard the soul and wrapped its arms around the torso beside it, that the
thought of maybe could no longer be
It was in the early hours of the morning, when eyes opened
sleepily and the arms realized they never wanted to let go, that the thought of
maybe left the mind and settled in
i always wonder how a writer would describe me in a novel as a character. what would be my quirks? what would be my strengths? would i be a hero or a villain? what would be my defining physical features they feel the need to describe to the reader? what would be my main drive? what would be my weakness? would they kill me off or would i survive?
right so i was talking about this yesterday and no one seems to agree w nora saying andrew and neil don’t get married?? but think about it okay bc i am all for it
they have never been a show-y couple
i feel like nicky would want them to get married
but like, can you imagine neil, the guy who has always learnt to stay hidden ((what a great job he did lmao)) and andrew, the guy who doesn’t share his emotion with others, sharing all that with everyone?
Jughead Jones, the once misunderstood, soft-spoken loner who buried his nose in books, fought for his family and friends, was standing before you a broken, inconsolable mess. He was just a boy but now he looked as if he had lived ten years more. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy, accenting the paleness of his skin as tears rolled down his cheeks. His chin was trembling, his eyes were red, and his voice was breaking.
“She doesn’t want me,” he said.
Staring back at a guy who looked almost like a stranger to you, you sighed heavily. “Who doesn’t want you?”
“My mom,” he said as he wiped the tears from under his eyes, not looking in your direction. He was almost too shy to look you in the eyes as he was at his most vulnerable. But Jughead had been your boyfriend for almost a year and he was your best friend for six years. Seeing him hurt and upset was nothing new, as unfortunate as it was.
“Jughead,” you whispered as you reached over and put your hand on his. He pulled his hand away from your touch and you sighed. “That’s not true.”
He stood up and started pacing your room with his hands gripping his hair. “I called her and told her I wanted to come and see her. She told me not to come. She said I would just get in the way.”
“She doesn’t mean-” You tried to spin the story a little to shed some light on his mother’s possible situation but he snapped when you tried to defend her.
“Don’t tell me what she means!” He yelled. “I was just on the phone with her. She said she doesn’t want me. My mom doesn’t want me, my dad is in jail for murdering Jason and I’m all alone again!”
You stood up. “You’re not alone, Jughead. You have me,” you told him.
He shook his head. “I’m a fucking failure. Everything I touch, I ruin. I tried to stop my mom and sister from leaving, but they left. I tried to get my dad back on track, but he ended up killing a kid my age.” He looked at you as he cried. “He killed someone my age. It could have been me.”
au where even is a concert pianist and isak busks with his ukulele for extra money. one day even sees isak playing and drops way too much money in his ukulele case so isak chases him down the street to tell him he’s made a mistake. even just says to use it to pay for their first date and winks and gives isak a piece of paper with his number on it.
I'm at work and I cannot stop thinking about a movie where Priya is an international art thief (notably stole a Rockwell titled "Thanksgiving Turkey") who grew up on the streets of New Delhi. She recruits Chalo, an international student from Malawi studying jazz saxophone on a track scholarship for the heist of the century. They are stealing STOLEN ARTIFACTS from the wealthy Deer family, who killed Chalo's father and salted the fields of Chalo's village.
This voracious craving for you, for all of you. It would be much simpler if I only wanted your body, but no, I want you, heart, mind and soul! I guess it is because I have given you no less than mine and the reciprocity of love beckons me to ask the same of you! So take all that I am, humble as my offering is; I do give it freely with all the love in my heart and I will take all of you to hold and cherish forever in my arms!
It’s all in my head, the words perfectly lined up, you can see on my face just how much I want to tell, I start to speak but soon I just want to yell.
Some words are punctual and they do their job right, Some are stuck and won’t cooperate to save me from my plight. I get stuck, I get embarrassed, my voice alternates between its highest and lowest pitch, and then I quickly just want to end.
So I miss out on the essence of the story, I miss out in bringing out the emotions that are its crux. I feel so frustrated with myself, I lower my eyes and get out my pen.
i wonder, when the day will come when i’ll be done and done with writing
when i’ll finally put that final manuscript aside and lean back and just… sigh
i wonder when i’ll be able to cap all my pens and close all my notebooks
i wonder when i’ll be able to run outside with the clouds without having to write about it later
i wonder i’ll meet the love of my life and i won’t feel the need to turn them into a poem
but, until then, i have my pens and i have my looseleaf and i will write