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I’ve always known, deep down, who should be leading this resistance. I’ve felt it quietly for some time now, always too scared to bring the words to my lips. Someone who’s got nothing left to lose and everything to gain. Someone no longer afraid of anyone. Not Castle. Not Kenji. Not Adam. Not even Warner. It should be me.
That's hysterical, how's she gonna be leading anyone when she can't get through a chapter without having a mental breakdown???
I press it without thinking. I press it over and over and over again, because the action calms me. Soothes me, somehow. Click click. I like the repetitive motion. Click. Click click. I don’t know what else to do.
would that not be alerting Warner every time she clicks it? he's just on the other side thinking she's actually dying lmao
“Then you told him he was crazy. You told him he had to be out of his mind to say something like that.” “No.” “No,” he echoes. I try not to move. Warner takes a hard, shaky breath. “Then what did you say to him?” Seven seconds die between us. “Nothing,” I whisper. Warner stills. I don’t breathe. No one speaks for what feels like forever.
Top notes of jasmine and nuances of grape. Mild notes of lilac, honeysuckle, rose, and cinnamon. Orange-flower and powder base notes complete the fragrance. Sounds amazing. I steal one of Warner’s soaps.
I want to know now if anyone decided to make this exact soap based on this para and called it Warner Soap
“Medicine?” I ask, surprised. I turn the little jar around in my hands, reading the label. I look up at him. Finally understanding. “This is for scars.” He runs a hand through his hair. Looks toward the wall. “Yes,” he says. “Now please give it back to me.” “Do you need help?” I ask. He stills. “What?” “This is for your back, isn’t it?”
“They were my birthday presents,” he says. “Every year from the time I was five. Until I turned eighteen,” he says. “He didn’t come back for my nineteenth birthday.” I’m frozen in horror. “Right.” Warner looks into his hands. “So—” “He cut you?” My voice is so hoarse. “Whip.”
“I haven’t been crying over you,” I say, wondering if it’s even possible to deliver this kind of information without both humiliating him and breaking his heart. I feel like such a monster. “And I’m really, really happy you’re here, but I don’t think we should be together anymore.”
“Our energies are never inconsistent,” Castle jumps in, nodding at Alia. “They follow a pattern—an almost mathematical precision. If you cannot injure yourself while breaking through a concrete wall, it does not then follow that you should be able to injure yourself by breaking the ground, only to remain uninjured after breaking the ground a second time.”
I will be unapologetic. I will live with no regrets. I will reach into the earth and rip out the injustice and I will crush it in my bare hands. I want Anderson to fear me and I want him to beg for mercy and I want to say no, not for you. Never for you. And I don’t care if that’s not nice enough.
Words are like seeds, I think, planted into our hearts at a tender age. They take root in us as we grow, settling deep into our souls. The good words plant well. They flourish and find homes in our hearts. They build trunks around our spines, steadying us when we’re feeling most flimsy; planting our feet firmly when we’re feeling most unsure. But the bad words grow poorly. Our trunks infest and spoil until we are hollow and housing the interests of others and not our own. We are forced to eat the fruit those words have borne, held hostage by the branches growing arms around our necks,
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