it’s a terrible thing to be in love with someone who loves you more than themselves.

“i don’t really know how it all works, how his mind forms his thoughts and his words, but it’s rather perfect, and for that i am thankful.”

her brown hair hang lank at the sides of her face, sometimes sweeping across her cheeks when she bent, but otherwise just hanging, still and silent, much like her these days; her eyes were bright, but her skin had a sickly pallor to it. while her mind might be spinning, her voice had not yet made an appearance.

she flicked at the papers in front of her, her hands slim and fingers like porcelain; i was afraid that they would snap. even i am losing my thoughts watching her: it seems as though she is too tired, her mind too worn, for her to grasp her thoughts and force them through her mouth, and, because of that, she remains silent.

it’s a terrible thing to love someone who loves themselves less than they love you.