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she tries to imagine a version of this day where he wakes, and sees her, and remembers.
the seven freckles, scattered like a band of stars across her nose and cheeks.
The things that last, even when memories don’t.
eyes brightening in that way unique to artists—writers, painters, musicians, anyone prone to moments of inspiration.
Because she has spent weeks getting to know him. And he has spent hours forgetting her.
No, Adeline has decided she would rather be a tree, like Estele. If she must grow roots, she would rather be left to flourish wild instead of pruned, would rather stand alone, allowed to grow beneath the open sky. Better that than firewood, cut down just to burn in someone else’s hearth.
There is a rhythm to moving through the world alone.
