There Was A Flicker In Her Expression —not Quite Surprise, Not Quite Protest. Just Something That Passed

tag drop.

Irene stops. Not all the way — not like someone caught — just enough that the wind tugs her coat sideways as she turns her head, just slightly, enough to look back over her shoulder. Not enough to give him the satisfaction of her full attention. Just enough to remind him she heard.

Her voice is quieter now, but it carries. A low current in the air, sharp as salt on an open wound.

“Funny thing,” she says, slow, measured. “You always think you’re doing the hunting until the ground gives out under you.”

She doesn’t give him a smile — wouldn’t waste one — but there’s a shift at the corner of her mouth. Not amusement. Something older. Worn. Closer to warning.

“Your kind shouldn’t be out in the rain.”

Her gaze flicks to the sky, where stormclouds roll like smoke on the edge of something worse. Then back to him, steady.

“Not when people would love nothing more than to see what you look like flayed open and nailed to someone’s cellar wall. Wet fur’s easier to skin.”

There’s no venom in it. Just fact, spoken like a woman who’s seen it done and didn’t bother looking away. Maybe even held the knife once.

Then she turns fully, shoulders settling back like a door swinging closed. No dramatic exit, no theatrics — just the kind of silence that comes after a line is drawn in chalk and left for the rain to erase.

“I don’t smell like nightmares. You do. I just know how to handle them.”

         now, she’s the one full of bullshit. césar rolls his eyes. now, they’re sick of each other.  “ for someone who’s tired of me talking, you sure like putting words in my mouth. ”  he’s a monster that doesn’t respect much. the sea, the natural chaos, they might be the only things in all the world that he does. and vengeance, he loves that shit.

         you’d better know how to swim when it pulls you under.  “ wanna’ bet? dare me. ”  he’s not a domesticated thing, hasn’t lost the pure, natural instinct to stay alive, but- he’s always been easily beckoned to a wine-dark sea, being dragged under the waves sounds better than whatever the fuck he’s doing now. whether or not he survives that is none of his business. his instincts will kick in, or they won’t.

          césar watches her turn around. despite the wolf that tingles under his skin, that wild nature threatens to turn skin to fur under stolen clothes, he doesn’t enjoy this chase. it’s a battle of pride, he’s a stubborn thing, and, truly, he just doesn’t care enough. there is nothing here to stoke the saliva from behind canines, to make him thirst and hunger for this. he’ll find another rat to play with, if the boredom persists. the man inside him refuses to be reduced to an animal, trailing along pathetically for a morsel of attention. but the wolf … catches a whiff of something familiar. a herb of the magical variety, one he knows from trial and error. the herb worked, but it wasn’t enough for what césar needed. once he focuses in on the smell, it’s impossible to ignore. it only grows stronger, and the storm, the sound of her turning feet, it all turns to background noise. it’s so strong, the smell of the herb, he believes he could follow it through, wherever she goes home to. wherever she’s hiding from. still, he comments bluntly, like he isn't sure, like he's too sure, like it's another part to this game. " you smell funny, who're you hiding from nightmares? "

She almost smiles at that — almost. It doesn’t quite make it past her mouth, gets caught in the corner like it’s not sure it belongs there. The bag still digs into her palm, but she doesn’t shift, doesn’t ease the pressure. Let it bite.

"You talk too much," she says, quiet and without heat. Like she’s telling him something he should already know.

Her gaze flicks away just once — toward the ocean — not because she’s afraid to look at him, but because the sea says more with silence than he does with all those cheap words. She listens for a beat. The crash and pull. A rhythm she’s known longer than she’s known her own name. It doesn't scare her. Not really.

“The water doesn’t ask for your permission,” she says after a moment, still watching the waves. “It just takes. That’s the difference.”

She finally shifts the bag to her other side, fingers tingling from the weight. She doesn’t mind the pins and needles. They make sense. Pain usually does.

Her eyes cut back to him then, flat and sharp like a blade that’s been sitting too long in salt air. “And I’m not looking to be liked. Least of all by a storm.”

A pause, long enough to be intentional.

“But if it wants to take me, it’s gonna have to earn it.”

         the wind starts lashing out at him, sharp and cutting. it whistles, even more piercing, it might just make his ears bleed. a punishment for sticking this out, pain to make a smarter man turn back, to make the animal fear the lash. césar doesn’t give a fuck. he likes it, the way it curls around him, seethes, the way it’s fury wrapped into something natural. he likes the taste of it on his tongue, the smell. he likes it. he’s sick, and he’s twisted, and he’s cursed. but in the middle of danger, with adrenaline begging its way back into his system, at least he feels alive.

         “ storm doesn’t like me. ”  césar ignores his choice of her words. of course she’s here, he’s here. everyone’s fucking crazy. whoop de doo. she knows it, he knows it. so what the hell are they still doing here? he keeps talking to fill the time. his boredom, at the center stage of concern. primarily.  “ the sea never does, ‘s not a … reciprocal thing. ”  damn, chiquita’s got him breaking out the 50 cent words, or whatever. the water’s where he’s been for two years, that same water has held him times when there weren’t hands to do so, and, besides, that when there was a brother who did. who always did. but césar’s got nothing to do with that.  “ silly lil’ sea bitches always end up dead, anyways. ‘s prolly no good, to be liked by the storm. ”  before, it had been just aimless, bored musing. now, he looks at her, judgy eyes and all.  “ you don’t seem to be the biggest fan of it though, the water? ”

Irene didn’t speak at first. Just stood there in the rain, coat stitched to her like a second skin, eyes set in a line that didn’t waver, didn’t blink. The storm had settled into something steadier now — a long, needling drizzle, the kind that soaked slow and stuck like guilt. It blurred the edges of the world, smeared the headlights in distant driveways, turned her breath to ghost-pale smoke.

When she finally exhaled, it was quiet. Not exasperated. Not angry.

Just… tired.

“I’ve met some suicidal people,” she said, voice low and dry, “— but this beats them all.”

She didn’t mean it cruel. There was no heat in it. Just the matter-of-fact weight of someone who’d walked through too many doorways behind bodies that couldn’t say no when it counted. Her gaze ticked down the side of the truck, traced the dented fender and the rust creeping out like ivy from the wheel well.

The wind shifted, pulling her hood back enough to reveal more of her face — pale skin flushed red at the cheeks, rainwater dragging hair across her jaw like threads of ink. There was no pleading in her expression. No desperation.

Just a quiet, aching kind of certainty.

“You want to stay? Fine. That’s yours to own. But don’t pretend it’s about sparing anyone else. You will die. And worse, you might take more people with you who are dumb enough to come out for you.”

The joke doesn't land, but he didn't really expect it to. But he's skeptical at her stance that he's got anything worth something to someone else. Even if a vampire were to come along, his blood probably tastes like pharmaceuticals and weed, not exactly the most appealing to anyone, and maybe he would make for a decent chewtoy for a werewolf if they didn't mind how stringy he was.

"Look," he sighs. "I get it. I hear you." They're the same warnings that have been rattling around in his head for hours, with each passing refusal. "But this truck... it's the only good thing that I have of my dad left." Fuck, he doesn't even know what the point of explaining it is. He was a shitty dude, left Kevin and their family with a ton of shitty problems, and yet, it wasn't always so bad. This truck is a reminder of those moments. It sounds even stupider now in his brain but he doesn't mention that part.

"I'm sure you're willing to help, and I appreciate it. I do. But I'm not leaving. It's my choice if I want to get wiped off the map with my truck, but I'd rather no one else get caught in my stupidity." She has no attachment to this truck or Kevin, and he wills her to listen to that. "The tow's gonna come, and I'll be fine." He has to be.

Irene didn’t pull back when Shiv gripped her shoulders. She just stood there, watching them with that usual unreadable expression — calm, quiet, like still water. But her fingers twitched at her sides, faintly. The only outward sign of how much it cost her to hear him say it. You have to go live it, Irene.

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch between them, long and measured like a tide pulling back before it crashed. The fire behind them crackled low, the stars above them steady, indifferent. The sea whispered to the shore like it knew how to keep secrets.

“You think I can’t keep this place?” Her voice was soft, but steady. Not offended — amused, almost. “Don’t underestimate me like that.” A beat. “I’m not the best weaver, but I’ve learned enough to make this last.”

She turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the water, the dunes, the crooked little house that already felt like it had always been there.

“I want to keep it,” she added, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Because this is the only place you’re not unraveling. The magic’s still working through your system. It’s not going to break overnight. If I drag you out now, you won’t just be half-broken — you’ll be wide open. To everything. Every memory that got scrambled, every spell that touched you, every voice that isn’t yours whispering in your head.”

Her gaze met his again, firm and quiet. Not pleading. Just the truth, delivered without edge.

“So yeah. I’m keeping this running. A little longer. Not forever. Just long enough for things to settle. Let it wear off right.”

She paused, her jaw tight. Shiv had given her an order — clear, methodical, backed by reason and logic and concern for the bigger picture. It was the kind of call she would have not respected from anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him. And she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t personal.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice lower now. “Trying to give me something to do. A way to step out clean. Get back to the others. Pretend like this was just another assignment.”

Another pause.

“But I can’t. Not yet.”

Her tone didn’t shift, but something softened in her face. A crack in the ice. Not quite a confession — she wasn’t built for those — but something close.

“Thera sent the note. Some people know already. Enough to keep the fire from going out. But if more eyes start turning to us — if someone sees me holding this space, we’ll both be screwed. And Thera... she won’t be safe either.”

She took a step closer. A tiny quirk pulled at the edge of her mouth.

“Can you just trust me?” she asked. “Really. Just… leave this up to me. I promise I won’t mess it up. And if I do, then you can kick my ass.” A shrug. “Or at least try.”

Her gaze held his, steady as ever. “I won’t let you get lost in here. So save your breath. Rest. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be when it’s time to come back.”

She stepped back, slowly, like she was anchoring them both again in place — not through force, not through spell, but through something stronger. Intent. Presence.

“This works just like the real world. You want dinner? Just think of it. Steak, ramen, oysters on ice, I don’t care — it’ll show up. You want to shower? Swim? You can.”

She turned her head toward the porch where the soft yellow glow still lingered. “There’s a bed in there. Clean sheets. You won’t have to check under the mattress for blades. Water pressure’s good. Books’ll be different every day — I made sure. Want a TV? I can give you that too. Just try not to sleep. You won't feel like you have to, but then if you do, it can complicate things, so let me know. If that need comes up.”

She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable again — except maybe in her eyes. A glint of something unspoken. Relief. Fear. Devotion.

“We’ll figure it out. The magic. The who. The why.” Her voice dropped. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.” She sighed. Riven, why? It wasn't just him, no. That, she'd figure out.

“Let me handle this world. Just this one. Okay?”

Shiv can only nod before closing their eyes and taking it all in. The coolness of the night. The sweet salt in the air as they inhale and exhale. The sweet relief that comes when returning to a home that has been waiting for you. Tranquility unwinds the knots in their muscles, eases their shoulders as Shiv relaxes. Its more than good or comfortable, this is heavenly.

Yet, as much as Shiv would like to completely unwind, they know that this is not their memory to look fondly back on. They are a guest in Irene's nostalgia. Eventually Shiv will have to return to the desert, the ruins of their mind and repair what's left for themself.

Irene can't stay here. She has to let them go.

"No. Unfortunately not. I was working in one of the back offices. The file room. Then someone called my name. That's it...Everything afterward is just static." Shiv sighs. They have no memory of the attack or the attacker. Or rather, attackers. "More than one witch", they repeat to themself, "We can work with that. Later."

"Now is not the time to start pointing fingers. Yama is patient; justice can wait." As much as loss, rage simmers beneath the skin of their tatted back, the last thing Shiv wants is for Irene to throw herself into danger for their sake. More than she already has trying to save Shiv from their own mind.

They take a step forward and plants both hands on Irene's shoulders. The hesitation is clear as day in Shiv's eyes, Shiv's voice as they speak with a heavy heart, "Thank you for everything. But we both know you can't stay here or maintain the beach forever. Your life is outside of this dream. You have to go live it, Irene."

Shiv stops themself. That sounded more like a final goodbye than they meant. This isn't a goodbye. This is Shiv giving Irene an order. "When you wake up, go back to the others and tell them what let happened-- Well, not everything that happened obviously. Mainly that I am stabilized and in safe hands. I'm sure Sammy is running around already; he's gonna need some help keeping everyone else's heads on their shoulders." Shiv stops themself once more. This time with a flicker of recognition in their eye that gives them pause. Its then that Shiv remembers them.

Sammy. Aurelia. Nico. Adrian. Gabriel. Gemma-

Just a handful of the hunters that are depending on them. A handful of hunters that, like Irene, are probably scrambling in their absence. An ugly truth comes to light, one they've been trying to undermine and deny even before the coma: Unfortunately, Shiv is important. Not in a way that is self serving or even speaks to their skillset but goes beyond hunting. A babysitter. A voice of reason. A helping hand. A mentor. A father figure? These roles can't be easily replaced or forgotten.

Shiv can't let their own mind swallow them whole; Shiv can't die here. Their Brotherhood needs them.

"Standard protocol. Two weeks." Shiv takes a deep breath and recomposes themself, back straightened and seemingly standing with a new vigor. "Give me two weeks in waking time to situate my mind. If I am not operational by then, you have full permission to yank me out by whatever means necessary. But my hunt is here. I must to finish it."

"Look. I have no clue how any of this magic works. But you do. That's what makes your skillset unique, part of what makes you a one of a kind hunter." Embrace it. Shiv gives Irene a quiet, reassuring smile. Their hands move from Irene's shoulders to her arms, bracing themself as if the two are about to make endure another hurricane. Irene is not going to like this. "When you go and this beach dissipates, give me no warning. Just rip if off like a band aid. Fast and simple."

"I'll be okay, alright? I'll be okay and I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

WHO: @erisinblood WHERE: downtown.

The bell above the shop door gave its usual tired jingle as Irene stepped out into the night, one hand tugging her coat tighter against the chill. Behind her, the faint scent of lavender and burnt mugwort still clung to her sleeves — the kind of smell that never quite left, no matter how much she scrubbed. She didn’t bother glancing back at the storefront; the lights were off, graveyard shift covered by the new girl with the shaky hands and too many questions. Irene had done her part.

Now the street was hers. Quiet. Dim. The kind of quiet that hummed a little too loud in her ears when she was alone with it for too long.

Her boots echoed against the pavement, rhythm steady, clipped, her hands shoved in her pockets. The streets in this part didn’t sleep, exactly. But they did doze—lights flickering in windows, the odd car sliding by like a ghost. The kind of in-between hour where anything felt like it could slip through the cracks.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Not really. Just felt that prickle at the base of her neck. Not danger exactly—just…attention.

She kept walking.

Then—

“Dianne?”

It hit her like a slap.

She stopped mid-step. Her lips parted slightly, sucking in a breath. And for a second—just a second—she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Like if she stood still enough, the moment might slide past her unnoticed.

But it didn’t. It never did.

Her fingers twitched where they curled in her coat pocket. Then, slowly, Irene turned.

The woman standing behind her wasn’t a stranger. Not quite. Something familiar hung in the shape of her —like a half-remembered song on the edge of a dream. Irene didn’t blink.

“I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said, voice even. Too even. Too smooth. A lie she’d used a thousand times, so well-worn it might as well have been armor.

Her voice was tighter now. And under the streetlight, her eyes gave her away —just a flicker, a crack in the calm.

Because Dianne had been gone for a long, long time. And no one had said that name to her face in years. Not unless they knew something they shouldn’t.

She let the silence settle for a beat, weighing the woman with a look that was too sharp for someone trying to play innocent.

But beneath it all, something ancient and uneasy stirred in her chest.

She looked like her mother, sure. But that didn’t mean she was her.

And gods help her if someone else could tell.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

The road was half-eaten, gouged by rain and salt, the edges soft and unreliable. Her boots sank just enough to be irritating. She’d been walking for a while—no destination, no plan, just a direction that felt better than turning back. Her hood was up, scarf pulled too tight at the neck, fingers stiff in her coat pockets.

The truck looked like it had tried to reason with the shoulder and lost. She might’ve kept walking, but the shape in the driver’s seat moved. Jolted, more like. Then a voice—muffled, defensive.

Irene stepped closer. Not enough to be intrusive, but enough to be seen clearly when the driver twisted toward the window.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly, lifting her voice just enough to carry through the rain. “You’re not dead.”

Her eyes skimmed the truck; stuck good, probably been here a while, cab fogged slightly, the kind of tired that lingered even in posture. Blanket around his shoulders, so either cold or trying to comfort himself. She didn’t care which. She wasn’t judging. Not really.

“You planning on becoming one?” she added, eyes steady. “Because you’re about three hours from the road washing out completely. Give or take.”

She didn’t reach for the door, didn’t crowd him. Just waited there, a half-soaked figure with wind-tangled hair and a stare like she was the one who’d summoned the storm.

“You got anyone coming?” A pause. “Anyone who can make it through this?”

There was no rush in her voice. No panic. Just the kind of tired patience that came from already knowing the answer.

who: open where: the side of the road

He manages not to fully skid off of the shoulder of the road, the emergency brake coming in clutch at the very last second. The engine groans a little as Kevin puts the truck into park before shutting off the engine entirely. Rolling the window down, he sticks his head out the window and can tell that the back wheel is stuck in the mud and there was no way it was getting out without help. His head is mostly drenched when he pulls it back into the cab and he sighs, banging it gently against the headrest.

His phone is open on the center console next to him, Kali's message still flashing brightly across the screen.

"Get off that man's dick and go home."

He had missed the message at first, mostly because he was on the man's dick, but he doesn't really think that extra 90 seconds would have mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. Either way, he and his truck are now both stuck in the rain, and he can already feel his joints reacting to the drop in air pressure. It feels like sandpaper rubbing against his bones, and he leans over to his glove compartment to grab his stash of edibles. He sure as hell wasn't driving anytime soon.

Since he's unable to run the engine, he reaches into the back seat to grab one of the blankets he keeps for Saturn. It's got dog hair all over it, but it smells like her so he wraps it around his shoulder and tries to find a comfortable position in his seat. He sends a couple texts out, to people who might be wondering where he is, but there is a big fat red "!" letting him know that nothing was being delivered. With his battery only at half, he sighs, turning off every app he wasn't using to try and preserve it for as long as possible.

Kevin's not sure if he falls asleep or lets the weed lull him into a comfortable doze, but he jumps when he hears a knock on the driver's seat window. His knee cracks uncomfortably from the movement, and he grunts as he shifts, looking out at the blurry figure in the storm. "I'm fine!" he tries to shout through the window. "It's dry and I can wait it out!"

WHO: @miyazakit WHERE: Goju Dojo

The dojo was quieter than she expected. Not silent, exactly—there was a hum to it, like a held breath or something waiting to begin, but quiet in that grounded way that pressed against her ribs and forced her to slow down. Think. Breathe.

Irene didn’t usually come to places like this. Places where people had rules and forms and discipline built into their bones. But she needed something, and she’d heard just enough about Tetsuya Goju to know he didn’t waste time asking questions.

The soles of her boots didn’t quite belong against the polished floors. She stood near the entrance for a beat too long, coat folded over one arm, eyes scanning the empty mats. Nothing sacred in these walls, she’d been told. Still—it felt cleaner than most places in the city. Like someone had fought for the quiet here.

She'd booked the session under a fake name. Just in case. People remembered Irene too easily.

When he stepped into view, she straightened. Didn’t smile. Just nodded, curt.

“I’m not here for enlightenment,” she said, tone flat but not unkind. “I just need to hit something.”

A pause.

“A few times.”

The bathroom door creaked open, and Irene blinked as the girl stepped out —mud-slicked, bloodstained, and stitched together with a kind of too-bright smile that didn’t touch her eyes. Irene didn’t move right away. She just stood there in her long coat, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other cradling a half-empty thermos of coffee gone cold.

Her gaze did what it always did—took in the shape of the girl, the uneven breathing, the way her hair was carefully arranged like a curtain. Irene didn’t need to see what was behind it to know what was there.

She’d seen that look before. In mirrors. In alleyways. In morgues.

The question made her tilt her head a little. A gym. It was such a soft, almost laughable request, spoken with the kind of desperation that tried to pass for casual. Irene didn’t laugh.

“Nearest gym’s about five miles and three lifetimes from here,” she said, voice flat, but not unkind. “And even if you found one, they’d probably want a membership card. Or at least shoes that don’t look like they got in a fight with the terrain and lost.”

She took a slow sip of her lukewarm coffee, eyes not leaving the girl’s face. The park light above them buzzed faintly, casting shadows under her eyes, giving everything that washed-out glow that made the world feel just a little too thin.

“You’re not from around here,” Irene said, not a question. Just a fact laid out neat and quiet between them.

Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just observant. Just practiced.

She shifted, letting the pause stretch a moment too long before offering, “There’s a community center down past Willow and 9th. Showers. Heat. No one’ll look too hard if you don’t give them reason to.”

A beat passed.

“You hurt anywhere bad?” Her eyes flicked to the girl's arm, where dried blood clung to torn fabric. “The kind that’s not healing like it should.”

Another beat.

Then, in that same even tone—quiet enough not to scare, sharp enough to be heard—she added, “You’ll want to watch what trails you take out here. Woods can be… unpredictable. Things stick to you.”

She didn’t say what things. Didn’t need to.

Instead, she shifted back just enough to clear the doorway, giving the girl space to pass. Her gaze lingered a moment longer on the edge of that hair curtain, but she didn’t press. Not yet.

“I’m Irene,” she said finally, like it mattered. “If you’re lost, I know my way around.”

She gave a slight nod, like she wasn’t just talking about directions.

open: to cor residents where: overlook park

   the journey to get to the city wasn't exactly how camila thought it'd go. she was new to town and didn't know a thing about where to go or who to see; if there even was a plan? either way, she was quite literally a mess. having to hitch hike in the middle of the night, and leave everything she once knew behind wasn't easy. she could still feel that...thing biting her neck. and she could still see the bodies of her parents. she also missed her...their family.

getting lost in the woods however, was the icing on top of the cake for camila as she wasn't exactly the 'hiking' type. she almost always relied on....her, to guide her through on camping trips. with no source of light, camila had managed to trip and stumble down a rather steep incline which led to a few bruises and scratches — which seemed to be healing? too freaked out to think of that, she shakily took the paper towel & ran it under the tap. 'the dried blood and mud on her clothes wouldn't budge, but she could at least clean up her face' she thought to herself.

camping out nearby, she heard knocking on the bathroom door. "i'm...i'll be out in a minute!" she said aloud, as the park washroom wasn't the most ideal place for her to try clean herself. but with her money running low and the car she had to abandon on the highway, she'd make do. putting a fake smile on her face, she used her hair to cover her neck before she's unlocking the door.

"sorry, i'll get out of your hair - uh. do you know where the nearest gym would be?" camila asked quickly, trying not to draw too much attention to herself.

Irene hadn’t meant to be out this early, let alone in this weather, but something in her had pulled her into the downpour anyway. Maybe it was the pressure in the air, that humming, bone-deep ache that came when storms gathered their skirts and began to spin. Or maybe it was just that sleep hadn’t stuck the way it should, and the silence inside had grown too loud to bear.

She wasn’t dancing. Not really. But she also wasn’t not moving—hands tucked into her coat, hood drawn low, boots soundless on the wet pavement. There was a rhythm to the rain that pulled at her limbs, loosened something usually kept tight. She walked like someone thinking too hard about nothing at all.

And then—motion. A blur of color. A voice, sharp in its brightness.

Irene stopped a few paces away, rainwater trailing slow down her jaw, catching in the curve of her collar. She blinked once, then again, like she wasn’t entirely convinced the figure in front of her was real. And then her mouth quirked—barely—but enough to register.

“You’re gonna break your neck dancing like that.” It wasn’t scolding. It wasn’t teasing either. Just dry, and maybe a little impressed.

Her eyes flicked across the slick street, then back to Allie, still beaming through the storm like it hadn’t dared touch her. Typical. “Didn’t peg you for a rain chaser,” Irene added, quieter this time. “Guess I was wrong.”

She didn’t move to leave. Not yet. The sky hadn’t cracked open wide enough for that.

who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: (Very) Early Day One, Hurricane Jac .

         she’d been hoping for rain, hadn’t she? and maybe she always is, but sometimes, it’s different than a want, and closer to a need. like the earth when it thirsts for growth, or a girl that wants to forget, and be washed clean, and forgiven. sometimes, she just needs to grow a little greener, too. and she’s not storm chasing, exactly. when she was younger, she’d tremble right along with the thunder. now, she’s outgrown that, and the talk of a hurricane feels like a distant nightmare that it’d be silly to fear. now, there’s only rain, and her walking takes on an air of wandering soon enough, and then she’s dancing right along with the song the sound of droplets make, the soft call of wind.

         the pavement grows slick under her feet, and in between a twirl and some kind of stumble, she slips. it’s only a moment, a soft breeze that draws an even softer squeal from her, but it does snap her attention away from only whimsy. through the rain, she thinks she can spot another person. like this, the water becomes a mirage, and she thinks they might be dancing too. or maybe it’s just the rain. either way, allie calls out to them with a beaming smile.  “ oh, sorry, i didn’t see you there! ”