The little shadow that runs through the grass

It’s terrifying, how limp she is. The lack of spark from one bit of fine cog to the next, but the heart within still lives. Still gives her hope.

He presses an urgent kiss to her forehead, pushing his thoughts and feelings towards her. {Yes, here. Thank you. Thank you. mydarling/mysister/mylove. Here. Me, Bobbi. Safe and whole and thank you.}

The soul grows brighter at the sound of his voice, goes steadier—overpowering relief, gratefulness, warmth, abiding love—and then Messy stirs, very, very slowly.

Oh. Nausea. That’s a new experience. /I think I broke my everything,/ she manages, head leaning against his hand as it lolls in his grasp.

(Source: mesmiranda)