[ everything he says carries more than what's said, admitting to something even more than he had originally planned on, now that she's prodded at the man who tried to bare it all to her in mere doses, in a simplified version that confesses the truth without leaving it too stripped to be perceived as more than he'd want it to be.
but marta has the tactics for scratching and digging out more. with her, it's never about living in a fantasy, in dodging the truth for something prettier; she cuts him raw with every word, and in the past few months, it's forced him to turn and face exactly what he's been running from, from the memories he's losing, from the choice he's made to discard his own life entirely. she never even had to know the truth for her to point him in that direction.
and even now as he paints her the harshness of what could ultimately happen, what prevents him from wanting to give too much of himself away, she doesn't pretend otherwise.
for him, hope was always the idea of a joke, of wishing for something that can't exist. in marta's world, it's peeling back the dirty layers of the real world to find the little spaces in between of everything broken and taking hold of what's not.
he watches her move away and return with that pen in her hand, brows knitting with confusion at the move until she spells it a bit more clearly, his expression soon softening with the realization of what she's suggesting. ]
It's not going to be up to me.
[ it's a minor attempt to keep fighting, albeit a weaker one as his shoulders slouch, watching her eyes with an attentive, understanding stare. because she's not wrong. there's still a way for him to hold on, even if he doesn't want to rely on it. ]
Are you ... sure you still want to be a part of it?
[ a part of his story. the one with the ending not yet written. ]
no subject
but marta has the tactics for scratching and digging out more. with her, it's never about living in a fantasy, in dodging the truth for something prettier; she cuts him raw with every word, and in the past few months, it's forced him to turn and face exactly what he's been running from, from the memories he's losing, from the choice he's made to discard his own life entirely. she never even had to know the truth for her to point him in that direction.
and even now as he paints her the harshness of what could ultimately happen, what prevents him from wanting to give too much of himself away, she doesn't pretend otherwise.
for him, hope was always the idea of a joke, of wishing for something that can't exist. in marta's world, it's peeling back the dirty layers of the real world to find the little spaces in between of everything broken and taking hold of what's not.
he watches her move away and return with that pen in her hand, brows knitting with confusion at the move until she spells it a bit more clearly, his expression soon softening with the realization of what she's suggesting. ]
It's not going to be up to me.
[ it's a minor attempt to keep fighting, albeit a weaker one as his shoulders slouch, watching her eyes with an attentive, understanding stare. because she's not wrong. there's still a way for him to hold on, even if he doesn't want to rely on it. ]
Are you ... sure you still want to be a part of it?
[ a part of his story. the one with the ending not yet written. ]