♕ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ᴊᴜsᴛ [75th vt blitz] ᴘʜʏsɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ᴏʙsᴇssᴇᴅ ♕

I have not slept the whole ride here.

From Capitol to Eight and back again it feels like a continuous timeline destined to end with the stopping of a heart that does not come. Adessia sits at the window with me excitedly, asking me questions of old homegrown memories that I have since dug up from the ground. They are no longer rooted here in the cracking streets of Eight and their people with minds full of newfound, blossoming hope.

Or so I have been told.

I had killed the girl from Two and in turn set fire to all the streetlamps— the first person from Eight to come home in one piece, two pieces— how many are there of me left?

I shudder, my shoulders hunching forward as Adessia’s hand catches me from falling forward to the ground of my own accord. She has learned not to ask me if I am okay, and instead she continues along her line of thought as though nothing has happened, “So, where was your favorite place to be when you had nothing to do?”

Truth be told, I could not tell you of any beautiful place here.

With a lack of answer and a presented homecoming full of false promises and chipped smiles, I push my way through the crowd and let her alone tail me to the door of a building I do not recognize. I push my hand from her shoulder and she reluctantly agrees, quipping off with a quiet, “I’ll be right here when you are finished.” I nod, shove the glass door aside and shrug off the hands that meet my shoulders immediately upon arrival.

I find myself at a counter I do not know, in front of a boy who I do not recognize and waiting for him to take the first breath, “…Well, nice to meet you too.”

He is not angry or condescending, but for once, purely inquisitive, “But why here, of all places in the District?”

No one has ever questioned the why of my motives and his initiative alone frightens me. I drum my fingers on the countertop and refuse to meet his eye, “Don’t know— apparently I haven’t made enough memories here.”

I bring my gaze up to meet his own and start off once more, “I’m Shelby Levi— I guess you know by now. I scoff, brush a stray crumb aside and continue, “You— who are you?”

"Well you’re still here and not six feet under so it’s never to late to start making more, right?”

(Wrong.

Inconceivably wrong.)

A sigh, from whose lips I do not know erupts between us and I try to not think of Cha Leviane, of falling with no fear of the ground. I try to not think of the day Curse Jinx and I laid our weapons against each others skin with the intent to kill and almost both succeeded. I think of that moment of pure bliss; the knowledge that death was coming for me now like the great flash of light at the end of every good book.

It never came, and I still fumble with the pages in the darkness.

I had forgotten that beyond it all I have given him a shattered name and asked for one repaired in return, but he does not hesitate and rattles off a list, most of which filter through my mind and leave behind not even a trace, but his voice focuses back in as he finishes, “But you can call me Cyrus.”

A nice enough name, I suppose. His jaw was tense, as though he could shatter any harsh feelings by taking the brunt of the damage with it. I try to break the silence with the smallest of smiles, but it crumples in my hands and draws back and I am left grasping for the cliff’s edge, chipped fingernails clawing desperately for a foothold and a forgotten memory. I try to acknowledge him by name from the start but it catches and causes my throat to swell and so I draw back, “What is this place exactly?” I pause and try to answer the question of my own accord, but the room is still spinning and all I can focus on is his jawline.